


The Warrior and the Wildfire

by cicada_bones



Series: The Warrior and the Embers [2]
Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Book 4: Queen of Shadows, F/M, POV Multiple, POV Rowan Whitethorn, Sequel to - Warrior and the Embers, Yes there will be other POV's, but im not going to tell you who!, mostly hedging my bets on that one, rated mature for language/mild sexual content/some violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:08:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28502745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicada_bones/pseuds/cicada_bones
Summary: Queen of Shadows from Rowan's POV.This is a continuation of the Warrior and the Embers, but you don't need to read that in order to read this (though I do highly recommend it). This will also comply with canon, but I am going to be sneaking in a bunch of extras and outtakes, and POV’s other than Rowans!
Relationships: Aedion Ashryver/Lysandra, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien & Rowan Whitethorn, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien/Rowan Whitethorn
Series: The Warrior and the Embers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838815
Comments: 196
Kudos: 293





	1. Return to Mistward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for thoughts of self harm, very mild

Rowan awoke abruptly, gasping and retching over the side of the bed. Bile pooled in his throat, and it was an effort to keep from vomiting up the meager contents of his stomach onto the cold stone floors of the fortress.

It had been the dream, the same dream. The visions that had tormented him for what now felt like months – though it had barely been a week since they had begun.

Aelin on her knees. Maeve towering before her, darkness wafting in deep pools around her feet. Black iron everywhere, keeping her chained to the floor. Keeping his queen locked in place.

Lorcan and Rowan appeared beside Maeve, whips clutched between their fingers. Aelin looked at him with betrayal in her eyes, and Rowan had to watch as he and Lorcan cut her skin to ribbons. As they cut her just like the men of the salt mines had cut her. As her master had cut her.

Maeve just laughed.

And that was usually when the screaming began. They were Lyria’s screams, but they fell from Aelin’s lips.

Rowan knew they were loud, knew the sounds coming from his queen were enough to echo through the castle, to shake its very foundation. But somehow, in the dream, he felt distant. Removed from them.

The sounds of her agony brushed his face like rose petals. Like a silver mist.

Cool. Soft.

And yet they made his heart pound through his chest, hammer and chisel on stone, splintering it apart. Piece. By. Piece.

Even now, he could still feel those screams radiating through his very being. Rippling through his soul like a rung bell. It felt as though their tender sound would never leave him.

It made Rowan want to tear out his own throat.

But instead, he slowly sat up, taking in slow breath after slow breath. Trying in vain to calm his pounding blood.

Rowan had been in Mistward for eight days now. Eight long days, and eight even longer nights. And he still hadn’t gotten used to sleeping in an empty bed. He wasn’t sure he would ever get used to it again.

It felt wrong to sleep in this bed without Aelin by his side. A bed they had shared for months, long enough for Rowan to get used to balancing himself on the edge of the mattress. Long enough for him to get used to hiding his desire from her, particularly in the mornings.

Her scent still lingered, almost like a friendly ghost haunting the stone alcoves. But soon, even that would be gone. Along with her muddy boots and lent garments.

Rowan had always slept on the side of the bed facing the door, providing Aelin as much protection as he could – even in his sleep. Aelin got the window side, where often, the moonlight would stretch its fingers across her golden hair, marking it with silver.

Now, it felt like an invasion to spread out, to brush against her side of the bed. To touch her moonlight.

So Rowan kept to his edge, and let the moon mark the empty space where his Fireheart used to rest.

For a while Rowan just lay there, letting himself be completely useless. Wallowing. But as the minutes slid past like hours, and Deanna finally slipped below the horizon to allow Mala to stretch her golden fingers over the land, Rowan dragged himself out of bed and prepared to face the day.

Each piece of steel he strapped beneath his clothes felt heavier than the last.

Rowan wandered down to the kitchens, his boots silent in the fortress corridors. It was still early, and Mistward wasn't quite awake yet. But the kitchens, as usual, had been bustling with energy long before dawn.

From the top of the stairs, Rowan could hear chopping vegetables, the quick opening and closing of the bread ovens, the cursing of burnt fingers. The melody of Luca and Emrys preparing for the breakfast rush.

Rowan slid in as quietly as he could, grabbing a mug of stew and snatching a loaf of bread when Emrys’ eyes were averted, then retreated to a back corner to wolf it down.

“Hurry up with those vegetables, Luca! No time to waste – the stock should have started simmering over 15 minutes ago!”

“I’m sorry Emrys, it’s just that Elentiya used to deal with this.” Luca frantically shoved the mixed vegetables into a pot, and moved on to carving at a mysterious slab of meat. Roast duck, perhaps?

“I know I know.” Emrys said, exasperated. “Just get it done. Malakai will be down in a minute to take you away, and then I’m going to have to finish this all myself.”

As if the old male had summoned him, Malakai appeared in the entranceway, his lined face haggard with missed sleep. He nodded at Rowan, then snuck behind Emrys to embrace him.

“See? What did I say,” Emrys teased, a smile in his voice, “Now I’ll be without _both_ my helpers to get breakfast on the table.” He snuck a kiss on his mate’s cheek, then twisted out of his grip to stir a massive vat of scrambled eggs, grabbing a handful of chopped chives from Luca’s cutting board and tossing them in.

Luca started working more furiously than ever, cutting bread into slices and portioning soup into bowls. Malakai reluctantly let go of his mate, then, surprisingly, looked up at Rowan.

“Prince Whitethorn,” he cleared his throat lightly. “Thrain has asked if I would join him beneath the fortress today, to help install the new iron gate. And Randall is over at the healer’s compound this morning, so – ”

Rowan frowned. He thought he knew where this was going. “ – would it be alright if you took Luca on patrol this morning?”

Rowan sighed. It wasn’t like he had anything more important to do. He gave the male a small nod, then said, “Emrys, if you need him this morning, it can wait until after breakfast is done.”

The old male didn’t even look up from the stove. “Thank you, Prince Rowan. Now Luca – ” Emrys gave the young male a daunting list of instructions, the boy’s face noticeably paling.

Malakai nodded at Rowan once again, kissed his mate, grabbed one of Luca’s slices of bread and cheese, then disappeared out the kitchen door, presumably to head for the tunnels beneath the fortress.

Rowan finished eating just as the demi-Fae began to arrive, told Luca he would be back in an hour, then left out the back door and headed into the forest, his limbs stretching into a slow, loping run.

This wasn’t the first time he had taken charge of Luca’s training since his return to Mistward, and he was starting to realize that he rather liked the young demi-Fae. No matter that he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He was almost like a very, _very_ young Connall – always full of questions, and going around with that naïve, bright-eyed innocence. So impressionable.

His run slowly transformed into a sprint, his muscles burning with exertion.

It was strange to feel the boy beginning to warm up to him after all these months. Finally opening up, and asking all those questions burning on his lips. And it was nice that Malakai and Emrys seemed to trust Rowan with him, even if it was just to guide him through the basics of sparring, or run with him around the borders of the fortress’ lands.

Rowan knew that Malakai and Emrys were at least a little bit confused as to why Rowan was back, but they hadn’t asked too many questions, for which he was grateful. Malakai and the other leaders wanted an update on the events in Doranelle and to know the Queen’s response to the Adarlanian attack, but all Emrys wanted to know was whether Elentiya was all right.

Rowan told them as little as he could, saying that he had informed Maeve of the details of Adarlan’s attack on the fortress, that she was responding accordingly and would keep them informed through the usual channels. He told them that Elentiya was on her way back to Adarlan, and that he was here on his queen’s orders.

Rowan just didn’t specify exactly _which_ queen had ordered him to return, and they did not ask. But somehow, he thought that Emrys suspected. That male seemed to be able to see through anything.

Rowan felt that Emrys and Malakai were wondering why he hadn’t gone with Aelin, but they didn’t say anything. And for that, Rowan was even more grateful. Because he didn’t have an answer to give them. He barely had an answer to give himself.

Rowan knew that Aelin hadn’t been telling him the whole truth on that pier, but he hadn’t wanted to push. She deserved her space, deserved to go back to Adarlan alone, with a clean slate and without a hulking ass like him hanging on her coattails at every moment. Even if it drove him completely insane.

Rowan’s feet pounded into the earth as he sprinted through the trees. Maybe this morning he would reach as far as the sea.

By the time they said goodbye, the captain’s scent had completely left her own. There was no trace of him left. But that didn’t mean that she didn’t still want him, or that when Rowan saw her again, the scent wouldn’t have returned.

There was also that prince, the Havilliard boy. They were friends, at the very least. And surely a match between their two houses would be politically advantageous. The first daughter of Brannon Galathynius, and the first son of Gavin Havilliard, combining their houses? Certainly something Aelin would be considering.

Rowan ripped past a patch of thorns, their barbs digging into the skin of his forearms. He didn’t pause.

Aelin had only mentioned her cousin a few times, just in passing, but Rowan had heard of Aedion Ashryver. Knew all the stories about the wolf of the north. Even knew about the rumors that had circulated, several times over, that a marriage would be arranged between the two of them.

It could be a smart match, the two cousins. Aedion was respected and admired throughout the western continent, and beloved by his people. It would solidify Aelin’s position within Terrasen, and secure her more support within her nation. He even had his own legion of soldiers he could promise to her cause.

Rowan’s breaths were sharp in his throat. He pushed himself even harder.

Then there was the matter of her former master. Aelin had never been clear about her relationship with Arobynn Hamel, whether he was father, brother, or…lover. The word turned Rowan’s stomach.

He was now practically flying through the trees.

Aelin had told him that she needed to go to Adarlan alone because Rowan would be too much of a distraction, that he would only make things harder for her if he went with her. And that was true, at least in part. But Rowan thought that the real reason she wanted to go alone was because she needed to deal with Chaol and Arobynn without him there to complicate things.

Arobynn… Rowan sighed, gritting his teeth. Rowan wasn’t sure he had ever desired the death of another human being more than he had Arobynn Hamel’s.

Aelin had been so hesitant, so reluctant to say anything about her former master. But those scars spoke volumes.

He had chained her, had abused her, manipulated her, and then beat her bloody. He had tortured and killed her lover. Her _Sam._ And then he had sent her to the salt mines, where she was whipped and starved and had nearly been destroyed.

Rowan wanted to tear Arobynn limb from limb, wanted to rip out his fingernails and chain him up in the dark and leave him there until he started to lose grip on what was real and what wasn’t. There was no torture too extreme, no punishment that he didn’t deserve.

But if Aelin decided to forgive him, decided to let that monster back into her life, Rowan would have to live with it.

And it killed him.

Killed him to have her headed over that sea, towards enemies who had already nearly succeeded in killing her, and who had tried over and over and over again. And most of all, it killed him because he had no idea when he would see her again. No idea if he would _ever_ see her again.

His legs kept pushing him forwards, his lungs fighting to keep up.

She didn’t want him. Aelin didn’t want him by her side.

Another ragged breath.

He would learn to live with it. Would learn to deal with that burden.

In. Out. Forwards.

Aelin would marry another, be it for love or politics. And Rowan would be there for her no matter what. That was the promise he had made, and that was the promise he would keep.

So he ran, pushing through the undergrowth until he could feel the sea air on his cheeks, until the wind whispered of caves and sand and foam and spray. Rowan sprinted right up to the cliffs, jerking to a stop.

He looked out over the deep blue water with sharp, determined eyes. As if he looked hard enough, he would be able to see her on her little ship, sailing away from him across the blue ocean.

But of course, the sea was as empty as it always was.

His breaths ripped through his chest, but before they calmed, Rowan had already shifted into his hawk and was soaring through the sea-tossed air. Heading back over the trees he had just run between.

This run had become a part of his routine. And while he told himself it was just exercise, he knew that it was really so he could run over the paths he had spent so much time with Aelin on. So he could feel like she was still with him, even fleetingly.

What had taken him nearly an hour to travel on foot took him barely minutes in the air. And soon, he was swooping down over the fortress and shifting to land on his feet outside the kitchen door to collect Luca.

Ever since the battle, the ward stones had been useless and silent, the barriers permanently fallen. Rowan had spent some time examining them, and though he could find no obvious flaw in the ancient stone, he also could find no remedy. Their magic was simply spent, and it would not come back.

As a result, the residents of Mistward had spent a significant amount of time and energy on designing replacements to secure the fortress; higher walls, stronger battlements, sturdier outer gate, larger drawbridge. These improvements were well underway by the time Rowan had returned a week past, and he had gladly thrown himself into the effort.

Even now, as he waited outside the kitchen for Luca to arrive, he could see various workers laying the foundation for the new gate and battlements, and others pulling a large wagon filled with quarried stone for the outer wall. Rowan would likely spend his afternoon among them, either with the men in the small quarry a mile or so away, harvesting stone blocks, or with those who were currently building the scaffolding to contain the stones as they were laid in place.

He wasn’t exactly looking forwards to it. The days were getting hotter as summer grew nearer, and though the day had barely begun, it already was promising to be sweltering.

Luca finally appeared at the door, Emrys’ voice calling from across the room reminding him to be careful, and that he would see him in the evening for the dinner rush, and to stay safe. Rowan disguised a small smile.

Luca glanced up at him briefly, then jerked his eyes away and skittered out of the entrance, making for the fortress gates. Rowan followed without a word.

“Malakai told me I was supposed to run the southern perimeter, and then work on my sparring forms.” Luca’s eyes met his, then flitted away again. Luca’s scent was mellow, buttered toast and apple slices, but right now it was sharp with anxiety and excitement.

Rowan nodded at the boy, and they took off towards the south, passing by sentries who waved and smiled at Luca, but didn’t seem to know how to greet Rowan. Most looked down and away, or raised their hands in half a wave which they quickly gave up on. Rowan ignored them.

Public opinion of him had shifted since the battle, but not by _that_ much.

They ran in silence for a while, Rowan alert and watchful, though they found nothing of interest. Luca was demi-Fae, but since he couldn’t shift, they were confined to a much slower pace than Rowan was used to. Meaning a run that would have taken him minutes, took them over an hour.

By the time they stopped for water, Luca was panting, but determined. Rowan handed the boy the water skin, which he eagerly gulped down. Rowan stripped off his light cotton shirt, now soaked in sweat, and hung it up on a branch at the edge of the clearing.

Luca’s voice floated over to him, “Do you think Elentiya is ever going to come back?”

Rowan paused for a moment. “I don’t know, Luca. But I don’t think so.”

His brow was furrowed. “How long are you going to stay here then?”

“I don’t know that either.”

The boy almost laughed. “I used to think that you knew everything.”

“No one knows everything.”

Luca shook his head slightly, glancing around the forest, his lips curved upwards into a sly grin. “But I still thought you did – well, if not everything, then at least everything _important._ Bas – ” Luca’s voice stumbled a bit over the other boy’s name, “he tried to tell me different, but I refused to listen to him.”

Rowan’s heart sunk. _Bas._ He had been so young, only a little bit older than Luca. He hadn’t known any better, had just wanted what everyone did – to be accepted. To be safe.

“I killed him, did you know that?” Luca’s gaze turned to Rowan’s. “I was the one who killed him.”

Rowan nodded. “I guessed.”

His eyes jerked away again, his feet scuffing the earth. “I still forget that he’s gone, sometimes. But it was the right thing – what I did. Wasn’t it?”

Rowan sighed, frowning slightly. Luca looked back up at him, worried. “The world is a complicated place,” Rowan said finally. “Answers are almost never as easy as that. But yes, Luca. I think that you did the right thing.”

The boy’s face darkened, and for a long moment, he didn’t say anything.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

Rowan let the silence continue, just waiting. Knowing that he might be the only person who could soothe this ache for the young demi-Fae. It was a responsibility that he didn’t take lightly.

“Sometimes – ” he broke off, and though his face was turned away, Rowan could see that his eyes were lined with silver. “Sometimes I wonder whether I still want to become a warrior.”

Rowan considered his answer carefully before he responded. “Warriors are many things, Luca, not just soldiers. Malakai has been a warrior all his life, but his days are filled with the duties of a leader, not with violence.”

“That wasn’t really what I meant.”

Rowan waited.

“I meant – I’m not sure why I’m doing this anymore. I mean why do I even want to be let into Doranelle? It doesn’t seem much better over there than it is here.”

“Then let me ask you a question in return,” he said plainly. “Do you think that what you’re learning is worthwhile?”

Another pause. “Yes…” Luca said slowly. “Or at least I _think_ so.”

“Then I would say don’t worry about whether or not you will pass your tests, and be let into Doranelle.” Rowan turned, and began walking through the clearing, scanning it over. “Many demi-Fae come here, and spend all of their time wishing to be somewhere else. Then when they don’t achieve that goal, they end up lost, and angry.” Rowan grabbed a long, sturdy stick from the ground and turned back to the young demi-Fae. “Instead focus on what you _are_ in control of.”

Rowan threw the stick over to Luca, who caught it just before it smacked him in the face. The boy wiped at his eyes, then nodded.

“Are you ready?” Rowan asked.

“Yes.”

“Alright.”

Rowan guided him through the basic sparring forms, grabbing another stick for himself as they staged mock battles. They exchanged choreographed blows until the sun began to pull them into midday, and they returned to Mistward.

Luca traipsed off to join the other young sentries, and Rowan spent the rest of the afternoon toiling over a ten-foot section of the new outer wall, laboriously hauling piles of stone and fitting them into place with smeared vats of pale-grey grout.

It was hard, physical labor. The kind that filled your muscles with a satisfying soreness at the end of the day. But it did not fill his mind.

Instead, Rowan spent the afternoon mulling over his conversation with Luca.

That boy really did have a way of worming through other people’s barriers.

But it was more than just that. It had almost reminded Rowan of living in his uncle’s house, when he was still learning the fighting arts and was recovering from the deaths of his parents. He had been surrounded by cousins, both younger and older. And today with Luca – that is what it had been like back then. Learning and teaching alike, giving comfort and advice when asked.

It was a time so distant, it felt strange in Rowan’s mind. Like they were the memories of another, completely separate person. Someone who didn’t exist anymore.

But this morning, he had reappeared. If only for a moment.

It was like putting on old clothes, made unfamiliar by time. The memory stretched tight over his new frame.

Rowan realized that he missed Sellene and Endymion and all the rest, missed their mess and chaos, and the countless children underfoot. It wasn’t likely he would see them again anytime soon. Nor that their meeting would be under anything resembling decent circumstances.

When they ate dinner that evening, Luca sat at Rowan’s table. They didn’t say anything to each other, but Rowan recognized the gesture for what it was.

And that night, when Rowan finally curled up at the edge of his mattress, his thoughts fell to family. To children. And what they would look like if he shared them with Aelin.

Rowan gritted his teeth at the idea, but he was unable to banish it. And so those thoughts coaxed him slowly to sleep, where he lay in the fortress of stone, surrounded by silver mist.

Just barely out of reach of the moonlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go! first chapter of QoS! Hello again to everyone who has already been following along, and hi to anyone new whos just finding this 💕
> 
> Please let me know what you think (comments are what sustain me. i am a writer monster who only eats comments. i need them to live. lmao) and thank you so so much for reading!
> 
> my tumblr is @cicada-bones (come yell at me over there!)


	2. Foreboding

There was once a male gifted by Hellas. He was born into nothing, was born into dirt and ash and squalor. He ate when he was hungry, took what he wanted, fought, stole, and whored.

Until a queen of darkness found him.

She raised him up from the slums, and turned him into a weapon of war. He gave up everything to serve her, pledged himself to her always. Even loved her.

She scorned him, but the male endured it. For he would lay down his life for her, had already given her his freedom. And what was his dignity by comparison?

The years passed, and time started to become meaningless. Courts rose and fell, warriors grew into power and others’ names were lost to time. The male built a company of soldiers to rival any throughout the land. They suffered loss, betrayal, and battles too numerous to count. But they stood strong through it all.

Until a princess of fire sailed in from across the sea, and stole his brother away.

Now his queen was lost, was blinded by her own desire for power. And for the first time in his long life, the male was unsure of the way.

A choice lay before him, two paths diverged. And time was running short for the decision to be made.

The male closed his eyes, letting his tense shoulders drop.

Both roads were fraught with darkness and difficulty. One would take him across the sea, and label him a betrayer, an oath-breaker. The other would chain him in place, to a throne whose foundation he was worried had already begun to crack. One would take him from his queen forever, but might save her from herself. The other would allow him to stay by her side, but only to watch as her greed slowly destroyed her.

One breath in, one breath out. Slow and even.

Lorcan Salvaterre opened his eyes to examine the golden ring in his palm, those two paths appearing before him, closer than ever.

And he had no more idea of his decision than he had from the beginning.

His feet shifted on the floor, rasping slightly on the stone. The sound was quiet, but it was just enough to cause his queen, asleep across the room, to stir.

Lorcan’s breath caught in his throat.

The moment stretched, twisting and pulling under the pressure. And he knew that his time had come.

But which? Which? _Which?_

The bedcovers ruffled, a slow sigh escaping his queen’s pink lips. Her face was clear, relaxed. And she was just as beautiful as the first moment he had beheld her. A dark majesty, like black cliffs of stone overlooking the sea, like the violence of dark water tossing itself at their feet.

Lorcan breathed deep, closing the golden ring in his fist.

And he darted from his queen’s chamber, slipping into a run. The fastest of his life.

···

Rowan lifted a spoonful of stew, then let it drip back into the wooden bowl, its soft trickling echoing between his ears. 

He had been sitting in the kitchens for what felt like hours, but by the movements of the sun, it couldn’t have been more than a quarter–, or maybe half an hour. If he was being generous. And he was not in a particularly generous mood.

Rowan was exhausted.

Not, in-need-of-a-few-hours-sleep-and-then-he-would-be-fine exhausted. More fall-asleep-standing-up exhausted. Sleep-for-three-days-straight exhausted. And it was only made worse by the fact that he knew he wouldn’t be sleeping well anytime soon.

Today had been a quarry day, and after his morning run, Rowan had spent hours under the baking Wendlyn sun, slowly coaxing rock from the earth. His magic had helped, as with it, he could make blades of ice to cut into the stone, shaping it like clay. It was far quicker, but it was just as exhausting as doing it the normal way, with arms and back and legs.

It had gotten to the point that Rowan was desperately catching minutes of rest here and there, lying awake for hours begging for sleep to come. But the nightmares just wouldn’t leave him be. And both the source of all the trouble and its only antidote was now over a month away. Even if he left that very moment.

He was too tired to even be properly angry with her.

Rowan raised the stew to his lips, swallowing the mouthful somewhat gingerly. It had gone cold. He just sighed, and swallowed another.

It had now been ten days and over two hours since he had last seen Aelin.

Luca rushed into the kitchen, knocking over a chair and causing Rowan to slosh soup all over the wooden table. The boy just grabbed something from the storage area beneath the sinks, and then rushed right out again. Rowan frowned at him.

It took him quite a bit longer than he would’ve ever been willing to admit, but eventually he realized that Emrys, who was scrubbing the stove clean at the other side of the room, was smothering a fit of laughter at his expense. And failing.

Rowan’s frown deepened as he wiped up the mess. Emrys started laughing even louder.

At least the room was nearly empty.

But honestly, he was past caring.

Rowan was patting at his damp shirt when Emrys walked over to him, bearing a washcloth and a fresh bowl of stew, steaming slightly in the light from the open door.

“Here,” he said, already walking back over to the stove. Rowan held in a sigh as he mopped himself up, then gratefully started spooning the warm stew into his mouth.

Rowan and Emrys were the only two people remaining in the kitchen. Now that the rainy season was over, Emrys’ evening storytelling was getting more and more rare. Demi-Fae now spent their evenings out of doors, taking walks through the woods and eating below the stars.

Though he didn’t miss the wet weather, Rowan couldn’t say that he didn’t miss the evenings spent with everyone sprawled in front of the hearth, listening and laughing and crying as Emrys spun his tales. It reminded him of listening to his mother, curled up next to her in bed. The sound of her voice lulling him to sleep.

Something he desperately needed now.

A clatter sounded from the front of the room, startling Rowan from his trance. It was only Emrys, who had now moved on to the dishes, and had dropped a bowl when moving them to their cabinet to be ready for breakfast in the morning.

Once again, the old male didn’t miss Rowan’s reaction. But he didn’t say anything, instead moving to wipe down the counters and tabletops. Another moment passed while Rowan finished his stew, then stood to wash his bowl and put it away with the others.

But Rowan knew Emrys’ silence wasn’t going to last.

And sure enough, just as Rowan put the bowl in the cupboard, the old male spoke up.

“Luca told me he liked training with you the other day.”

The statement was tentative, probing. Rowan didn’t say anything.

Emrys pursed his lips, even as he continued rifling in the store cupboard for some hard-to-reach item. Another breath, then, “He said that you talked about Bas.”

Still, Rowan kept silent.

Emrys sighed. “In the weeks after the battle, Luca…” he trailed off, eyeing the bags of potatoes and onions he was supposed to be counting. “He retreated into himself. He wouldn’t talk to us, to me or Malakai. I know that we aren’t his parents, that we have no right to him. But Luca doesn’t have anyone else. His mortal parents abandoned him, and he never knew his Fae parentage…” he trailed off again.

Rowan found himself nodding to fill the silence. “You care for him,” he said softly. “Anyone could see that.”

Emrys’ eyes met his for a moment, then turned back to the potatoes. “He has become a part of our family. And to have him hide from us in that way…it was hard.”

Rowan nodded again, his brow furrowing as his thoughts began to twist. _Where was Emrys going with this?_

The male seemed to rally himself. “So I need to know, what happened to Bas? Was – was he really the one who betrayed us to the soldiers?”

Rowan frowned. “Luca didn’t say?”

Emrys scowled. “You weren’t here for those weeks after the battle, you didn’t see. At first, the whole fortress was in chaos, so wrapped up in healing and recovery and relief. And you – you had other things you were paying more attention to.”

Rowan’s face twisted in acknowledgement. He wasn’t sure he’d spent more than five minutes away from Aelin that week.

Emrys continued. “But then, once everything began to calm, Luca went silent. He wouldn’t eat, wasn’t sleeping. Eventually he just came back, like nothing had happened. But it was too delicate. We were afraid to ask him, to push it.”

Rowan nodded. Emrys looked at him expectantly. “What happened to him?”

Rowan steadied himself, then began to explain. By the time he was done, Emrys’ eyes were lined with silver.

“So he killed him?” the male’s voice was soft, heartbroken.

Rowan nodded, and Emrys turned back to the onions and potatoes, cutting off the growths that had sprouted, and tossing away those that looked close to rot. Distracting himself.

“To think, a few months ago I never would’ve thought that I would see you so calm.” Emrys said, almost sardonically. “The state that girl was in this spring – and you two fighting like alley cats. Always at each other’s throats.”

He stood, hauling the discarded vegetables to the compost heap, and moved on to the case of fresher vegetables that had been carted in a few days ago from a nearby farm. “And yet by the end, I thought you two inseparable.”

Rowan averted his gaze just as Emrys glanced up, his eyes sharp. Rowan knew that there was a question there, one that he had no intention of answering.

Emrys voiced it anyways. “And when do you think we will be seeing her again?”

Rowan gritted his teeth. Emrys seemed to sense an uphill battle.

“I – I need to know that she is alright. That she’s going to be alright.”

“No one can know that.”

Emrys frowned. “What will she be facing in Adarlan? Does she seek to confront the king – ”

Rowan cut him off. _“Elentiya,_ has not shared her plans with me. Nor would she have a reason to. I serve another. She is on her own.”

Emrys’ face tightened, but he took it with grace. They were silent for another long moment, or at least until Emrys began tossing sweet peas and lettuce and leeks into a pile, murmuring about old greens and dishonest farmers.

But before Rowan could escape back to his rooms, to see if perhaps he could finally get some rest, Emrys stopped him once again. “In that case, how long do you think you will be with us, Prince?”

Rowan sighed, stalling in the doorway. He’d been avoiding this question too. “I’m not sure.”

Emrys raised his eyebrows. “Won’t _your queen_ be summoning you soon? Now that your training with the girl is done?”

Rowan gritted his teeth. He couldn’t say anything to the old male, no matter how trustworthy he might seem. _“Our_ Queen has ordered me to stay and assist with the repairs around the fortress, and I will stay until she orders me otherwise.”

“And you have no idea when that will be?”

“None.”

“So…” Emrys started, “While you are here…would you consider training Luca?”

Now it was Rowan’s turn to scowl. He should have known that this was where Emrys was heading. And for some reason, the offer set a wave of melancholy though him. Strong enough to take him by surprise.

“I know that the boy is not up to your standard, but when he came back from his run with you yesterday – he was different. Lighter.” When Rowan didn’t say anything, Emrys continued. “You helped him.”

Rowan shook his head, “I didn’t do anything that anybody couldn’t have.”

“Maybe so, but – ” Emrys dusted off his pant legs, making to stand. "You’ve made yourself one of the finest instructors I’ve ever seen come through here. You made that girl into what she is. And Luca was always talking about how much he wanted to go to Doranelle, to escape, and become a great warrior of the land.”

Emrys’ eyes twinkled. Rowan was still shaking his head.

“Just – please consider it. For Luca’s sake.” Emrys threw the remaining vegetable scraps onto the compost heap. “We only want him to be happy.”

“I know, but – ”

“But _what,_ Prince?” Emrys’ eyes seemed to bore into him. “What is keeping you? If you must stay here, might you not be useful, as more than just a workhorse in the quarry?”

Rowan’s breath was tight in this chest. He wanted to say that Luca deserved someone better than him. To say that he would only disappoint, that he could never give the boy what he really wanted. Particularly since he so obviously looked up to Rowan.

But the real reason he was so reticent was because it was _exactly what he wanted_. In a different time, and in a different place. To settle, and build a home. To rebuild and teach and heal, from a lifetime of hurting.

It was so close.

But there was a massive, impassable cavern between here and there. Because Aelin was not with him. And the world around this fortress was far from peaceful.

War not only threatened, but snapped at their heels. Waiting to strike. Rowan could feel in it his bones. There were far too many storms to weather, and enemies to defeat, before that future could possibly be his.

So Rowan only said, “I will think on it, Emrys. And I will agree to spend time with him in the mornings. But just remember, I have no idea when I might be called away. It could be tomorrow or months from now. I can’t make any promises.”

Emrys nodded. “I didn’t really expect you to, Prince.” And he turned back to the storage cupboards, sealing things up for the night.

Rowan turned to leave, but then paused. “And Emrys – you could see about trying to talk to the boy again. Im not sure – but I think he might this time.”

Emrys gave him a small, but warm, smile. “Thank you, Prince.” And Rowan walked out.

···

Rowan jerked from sleep, his body shuddering uncontrollably. This time, the dream had been different. Had been worse.

Instead of him torturing Aelin, and listening to Lyria’s screaming, he had to watch as Aelin gave up. As she let the grief and pain overwhelm her, and she retreated into that shell of a person she had been when they first met.

Maeve threatened to have Cairn whip him, a punishment he had borne numerous times. Pain that, under the circumstances, he would take gladly. That he would take and be grateful.

But Aelin could not take it.

When Maeve threatened to whip Rowan, Aelin gave in. And she handed over the Wyrdkeys.

And Rowan could only watch as the dark queen laughed and laughed and laughed. And destroyed everything in the world that he loved.

It was knowledge that Rowan kept locked up so tight it could only come out in his dreams. The knowledge that Aelin would hand over the Wyrdkeys for him. It was their greatest weakness, their bond. But Rowan couldn’t see what he could do about it.

They were both weaker, and stronger, together. It was a problem he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to solve.

Rowan breathed, calming his wracked body, then stood up and began pulling on fresh clothes and strapping on his many blades. He shifted, then tore out the window and into the waiting sky.

It had been a few days since his conversation with Emrys, each of them longer than the last. It was like he was walking upstream, fighting against the rushing current. Time flowed around him like molasses, sticky and slow and uncomfortable as all hell. But pass it did.

It had now been nearly two weeks since he had last seen Aelin. It felt like a year.

Each of the past three mornings, Rowan had trained with Luca. Guiding him through the bare bones of his morning routine. Even though it had only been a few days, Rowan could already spot marked improvement in the boy’s endurance and speed. In quiet moments, when laboring around the fortress, Rowan even caught himself planning lessons for the boy. Figuring out what would suit him best.

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the sadness that filled him whenever he corrected the boy’s stance, or reminded him to keep his core muscles tense. Nor could he escape the increasing feeling of foreboding whenever he thought about the future.

This tense peace was not going to last much longer, he was sure of it.

And as he shifted his wings to turn back towards Mistward, Rowan’s conviction was all but confirmed.

For wafting towards him on the western wind, was the unmistakable scent of Lorcan Salvaterre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im trying my hardest to get a bunch of updates out before I have to go back to school - so here you go! record time! Its a little short i know, but i couldn't resist that cliffhanger (bwahhahahah!!!)
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think! And my tumblr is @cicada-bones


	3. Oath-Breaker

It was fresh, and completely unmistakable. Within the past few hours, Lorcan Salvaterre had passed by Mistward, heading for the sea.

Rowan immediately swooped low, following the scent to where it meandered over the forest floor, his heart pounding in his chest. The trail skirted around the edge of Mistward’s perimeter, following a path that was just out of their sightline, but close enough that in the morning, the scouts would find it immediately.

It almost felt like a message.

Rowan shifted in mid-air, landing hard on his heels and already drawing the wind towards him from all directions, searching for anything, any whisper of a dark form, flitting between the oaks, quick as a shadow – 

But there was nothing. Only the memory.

Rowan began to run, following the trail westward. Even though Lorcan had passed through these trees barely a few hours ago, the wind couldn’t sense him. He was already gone, miles and miles ahead. Out of the reach of Rowan’s wind.

As the trail solidified before him, Rowan’s stride lengthened, his footing becoming more sure with each step. And he longed to be able to shift again, to use the wind to propel him over the land.

He could fly so much faster than he could run, but then he risked losing the scent – a chance he could not take. So instead Rowan dug his feet into the earth, tearing through the forest mists. A predator on the hunt.

Only one thought in his head.

_Why in rutting hell was Lorcan Salvaterre trying to get his attention?_

_···_

Fenrys wasn’t there when she found out.

He was out on a run, hunting through the forests around Doranelle. Chasing down after whispers of the forest-spirits. He knew they were here: the elemental beings, as ancient as the very stones and mountains and valleys. Older than history – than time itself.

Fenrys would hear them in the night – sounds of crashing rock and tearing metal, the felling of trees when no wind blew. Still fighting their ancient wars, either uncaring or ignorant of the affairs of lesser beings. But Fenrys had never seen them, nor did he know of anyone who had.

Every now and again, he would glance a fairy or two. One of the Little Folk, going about their little-great-deeds. But it was never when he was looking for them.

It was something he and Connall used to do as young ones – charge through the forest, hunting for fairies. For the heroes of the tales their mother would tell them, over glasses of sweet fruit juice on lazy summer afternoons. Stories of battles and warriors and the hidden magic of the land. To this day, Fenrys didn’t know whether the stories were true, or if she had made them up herself.

He knew it was only purposeless distraction, and one that he would likely pay for when he returned. But he just had no idea how much.

So no, Fenrys wasn’t in the palace when Maeve found out.

But Connall was.

···

The trail was nearly a straight shot through the woods, barely deviating for trees and boulders. Lorcan was really hauling ass. And as he drew closer and closer to the coastline, and the little market town that was waiting for him there, Rowan felt his suspicions begin to grow.

It was nearing evening when Rowan finally began to hear little signs of approaching civilization – the neighing of horses, the soft thumps of an axe chopping wood. But the trail pushed on, breaching the edges of the trees, following over the cobbles through the market, out towards the end of the main street, until it came to a stop. Right at the end of the long wooden dock.

Rowan stood at the brink, right where the path met the sea. And he could feel fury coiling in his gut.

Lorcan had left. And Rowan thought he might be able to guess where his former commander was headed. But before he decided anything, before he made a plan, he needed to be absolutely sure.

Rowan turned on his heels, headed back into the village. His cloak was pulled high over his head, hiding much of his face. He let his body fall into a slump, hiding its powerful shape. Evening was coming on, and if he kept his movements sloppy and wide, he could be just another traveler, coming to wet his throat with watered-down ale.

Outside the pub, a young maid was lighting the lamps, her hair neat and apron clean. When she looked up at him, Rowan caught the glint of sharp eyes. Maybe he wouldn’t even need to go inside the tavern.

“Hello miss,” Rowan said, ever so slightly shifting his accent, letting the words fall from his mouth like marbles. “Might you be able to tell me where I could hire passage on a ship?”

Her face twisted shrewdly, and she gave him a quick once over as she straightened and said, “Depends on where you’re goin’. And how much coin you’ve got t’ spend.”

Rowan nodded, making sure to keep his clothes hidden with the cloak, knowing that an accidental glint of silver from one of his hidden blades might be enough for her to call for help from inside the tavern. And that last thing he wanted was trouble. “When was your last ship headed for Adarlan? And when will you be expecting the next one? It doesn’t have to be fast, or comfortable.”

Her expression tightened, but she answered reasonably enough. “We get a fair few ships headed to the western continent this time o’ year – the sheep’ve just been shorn and ships head that a-way bearing wool to trade for furs from the north, and steel from the south. I’m pretty sure we had a ship go through this morning.”

“And the next?” Rowan prompted, his expression schooled into neutrality.

“If you ask around the dockyards, I’m sure you might find another ship headin’ that way – once the tide comes in. And if not, then I’m sure there’ll be another come tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Rowan slipped the girl a coin. “By chance, you didn’t catch another traveler come through here today, heading the same direction – asking questions? Tall, dark hair, harsh look?”

The shrewd look fell into a scowl. “Maybe. Either way, my answer’ll cost more’n just a copper.”

Rowan slipped her another couple of coins, and she pocketed them. But her scowl didn’t soften.

“I might’ve seen your man. Came through around mid-morning, in a massive rush. Massive man, at that. _Huge._ Musta been six, nearly seven feet? I don’t think I’ve _ever_ seen a man that tall. And he nearly knocked me over coming in the pub to ask after passage to Rifthold. Kept his face covered though, so I couldn’t be sure.”

Rowan nodded again, but before the maid could turn to leave, he asked, “Oh – and do you happen to know a place where I could send a letter?”

“If you give it to me, I can get it to my mother and she’ll give it to the courier when he comes ‘round in the mornin’. You gonna come in for a pint?”

The maid held open the door, and Rowan followed her in, thinking it much easier to just go along with the girl, and far too wrapped up in his thoughts to come up with a polite refusal that wouldn’t leave her even more suspicious than she already was.

The tavern wasn’t bustling, but it was far from empty either. A few farmers sat at a table in the far corner, enjoying a few beers after a long day’s work, while a few younger boys, perhaps their sons, were laughing and joking across the room. There were a few other individuals – travelers like himself, or people who lived and worked in the village. But the majority of the bar was filled with sailors – teasing and joking and climbing all over each other, celebrating their last night on dry ground for many weeks to come.

Rowan headed for a quiet corner, flagging down the waitress and settling onto a creaky wooden bench. He ordered some bread and ale, which she had brought over in mere seconds, and he began to pick at it mindlessly.

There could be no doubt. Lorcan was heading for Adarlan, for Rifthold. For Aelin.

Maeve had sent him to go after Aelin. And she had ordered him to pass by Mistward, Mistward _specifically,_ so that Rowan would be drawn into the conflict. Maybe they were planning on using him to get to Aelin, to follow him in order to find her.

The question was, why only Lorcan? Where were the twins? Gavriel? Vaughan? Would they follow Lorcan? Were they already headed for Adarlan?

Rationally, Rowan knew that Aelin was safe. That she was still somewhere in the middle of the ocean, on her way to Rifthold. But it took all of his self-control to keep himself from shifting right there, in the middle of this tavern filled with mortals, and fly out into the ocean skies to find her.

What really worried him was the idea that he would get there too late. That even if he got on a ship right at that moment, he would get to Rifthold after she had already been found, taken, overwhelmed. The idea that there were already forces there, waiting to seize her.

And no matter what, Lorcan would arrive in Rifthold hours or days before Rowan would be able to, and well before Aelin could read any letter he sent. Not that he even knew where he could send a letter. All he knew was that she used to own a hidden apartment in the slums, and that for the past six months, she had lived in a stone tower in the castle.

It seemed unlikely that she would return to either. Both were compromised, the castle being an obviously insane choice. Unless of course she had something hidden up her sleeve that she had kept from Rowan. Which felt distinctly possible. And Arobynn had to know about the apartment. She had nowhere safe to go, and Rowan had nowhere safe he could send a warning.

So the only way he would be able to tell her about Lorcan would be to go there himself. To break his oath.

Rowan knew that he could, and without much difficulty at that. But it still felt wrong – a violation of trust. If he left Wendlyn without being told to by Aelin, he would be going against her wishes. He would be taking advantage, both of the flexibility of their bond and of her trust in him.

And it definitely didn’t make things any easier that he so desperately wanted to leave in the first place. It felt like he was exploiting the opportunity to be close to her again, no matter how rationally necessary it might be. And there was a chance that she might not forgive him for it.

But no matter how much that might sting, he couldn’t live through following her requests to the letter, and Aelin dying because of it.

So, Lorcan was headed for Rifthold. And soon, Rowan would be heading there as well.

Rowan tore into the bread, newly reinvigorated. He didn’t see any reason to return to Mistward, there wasn’t anything there worth sacrificing another day for. But he did feel bad about leaving without any notice. Deserting Emrys and Malakai, and…Luca.

So as he ate, Rowan dug out a piece of paper from his pack and began to write.

Emrys,

I’m sorry. Something came up. Tell Luca to remember to practice swings off his left side just as much as his right, I don’t care if they hurt more.

When I see her, I’ll tell her you say hello.

Then he folded up the paper and sealed it, leaving it unmarked. Hopefully, even if someone – such as that suspicious maid – opened the letter to see what it said, what he wrote would be meaningless.

He spent the rest of the evening listening to the sailors’ conversation, until he heard mention of a crew headed for Rifthold. The barmaid hadn’t lied – it was a ship bearing crates of wool heading to Adarlan to trade for steel. This was their last night ashore, and they were setting sail sometime in the early morning, just before the tide shifted.

So Rowan waited a few minutes more, then left the waitress his fee, gave the maid his letter, and walked out into the lamplit village, his jaw squared and his shoulders set. Determined.

···

Fenrys returned to broken furniture. Splintered wood and broken glass. Twisted metal and shattered stone. That was the first thing he noticed.

The second thing he noticed was the silence. It stretched its fingers through the walls and corridors and archways, until it brushed through to his skin. Until it was the only touch he could feel.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Where there should be sound.

The third thing he noticed was the bodies. Their touch was even colder than the quiet. There was no red, no black. None of the usual gory signs of death. Just nothing. An absence.

Fenrys worked his way through the wreckage, his hands empty of feeling, his heart a stone in his chest. His intestines resting somewhere near his toes.

Until he reached their rooms, and found Connall in a dark huddle across the sea of space, and he was still breathing and it felt like Fenrys could breathe again too, but then Connall spoke and sound returned to the world, _“Why did he leave? Why did he leave us?”_ and his voice was so full of fear that Fenrys felt tears sprout from his eyes like wings.

 _“Who?”_ Fenrys asked. _“Who, Con? What_ happened?”

But then the palace stones began to thunder, and the questions that had seemed so important only a moment ago fell from his mind on a scattered breeze.

···

Rowan flitted into a dark alleyway around the back of the tavern, and once he was sure there was no one there to see, he shifted into his hawk and flew out over the small village.

From his eavesdropping earlier, he had learned that the ship headed for Rifthold was an old galleon vessel near the edge of the docks, bearing white and yellow flags. It had a large enough cargo bay that hopefully Rowan would be able to find a place to stow away, but wasn’t so large that the journey would take even longer than it should. Which was already far, far too long for his liking.

Rowan circled high above the ship a few times, making sure that he appeared as nothing more than just another sea bird, hunting for its dinner. Although most of the crew, including the captain and first mate, appeared to be drinking away their pay on the floor of the tavern in the village, the ship wasn’t completely empty.

His winds told him that at least three men were asleep below decks, their rumbling snores echoing through the wooden beams. But a few lamps still shone, and with their light Rowan could see a few flickering shadows just beneath the upper deck that made him think not all of the sailors were yet asleep.

So Rowan would have to be extremely careful in making his approach.

He waited for long minutes for those lights to vanish, and shadows to disappear. And the second they did Rowan was sailing down among the rigging, twisting and turning around the sails and masts until he could be absolutely sure that there weren’t any watchful eyes to mark his presence.

Then Rowan was swooping down into the maze of rooms below decks, making sure to avoid the various sleeping quarters, kitchens, and officers’ cabins. Heading towards the hold at the very bottom of the ship in as straight of a path as he could.

Rowan found a dark corner behind a case of flour and barrel of barley, and then shifted back into his Fae form. Once they passed the halfway mark between Adarlan and Wendlyn, magic would stop working, and he wouldn’t be able to move between forms. He had to find a place he could hide in during the day that was large enough for his Fae body. A task far easier said than done.

A ship like this had a crew in the dozens, and quarters were cramped all to hell. Every piece of available space was used, from every corner to closet and even the toilets. Only the captain would have room to stretch his legs, and even then, it was barely by a few feet. Nothing like the space he would need in order to not attract attention.

Rowan looked over the hold once again, scanning for anything that could possibly be large enough. Then he nearly huffed a laugh when he realized exactly what he needed to do.

···

When morning came, Rowan was crammed into a wooden case lined with wool. The back panel carefully pried out and its nails removed, but then leaned carefully back into place to allow him a quick exit. And the majority of the wool was now taking a trip down the coastline.

He had spent an hour or so that night carefully removing armfuls of the fiber and tossing it overboard, using his wind to propel it from the shipyard and out to sea, leaving only just enough room for himself. It was crammed, scratchy, uncomfortable, and smelled like sheep dung, but it would do.

Now, as the ship slowly meandered its way through the reef and out into open ocean, with the occasional shouts and curses of the sailors toiling above, Rowan had nothing to do but think.

For the next month.

It might just be the longest month of his life. At least he couldn’t complain about not having enough time to plan.

Aelin certainly would have a strategy, and by the time he reached her, she would have been working away at it for nearly two weeks. And while he could only guess at her aims, he knew that when he reached her, he would do whatever he could to help her reach those goals.

The question was, should he reach her at all?

Rowan knew he needed to warn her about Lorcan, but once he was actually in Rifthold, that could be done in many ways – not just by contacting her in person. And deep in his bones, Rowan knew that Lorcan had dragged him here on purpose. That the male had _wanted_ him to follow, to pursue. There were faster ways to travel from Doranelle to the sea than to go by Mistward.

So wouldn’t it be playing right into Lorcan’s hands to join up with Aelin? Giving him exactly what he wanted?

Lorcan wasn’t familiar enough with Aelin’s scent, nor with the city of Rifthold, to track her down by himself. He would be digging in the dark – except for the trail that Rowan would give him, as easily as handing over their lives like so much coin.

Perhaps Rowan could go to Rifthold, warn Aelin anonymously, and track down Lorcan by himself. And the faster he rid himself of his former commander, the sooner Rowan would be able to reunite with his Queen.

The pain of that future made him physically flinch.

And it wasn’t only the idea of being in the same city, or even just on the same continent, as Aelin and not being beside her. It was the thought of Lorcan, _Lorcan,_ his commander of nearly three centuries, someone he had almost once thought of as a brother, or even a friend, _Lorcan,_ as someone he needed to dispose of.

Someone who was his enemy.

It was a heavy, uncomfortable weight. It felt strange, and wrong, to have someone he had so trusted become such a dangerous enemy. No matter how necessary he knew it might be, Rowan couldn’t really think of killing him.

It would be like destroying a part of himself, an old part, but a necessary one.

Without Lorcan, he wouldn’t have become the person he was today, wouldn’t know the things he knew, or understand what he now did. About war and sacrifice and leadership and teaching.

Lorcan had been a pillar in his life when he needed one. And while Rowan hadn’t loved him, he had respected him.

And now they were enemies.

Rowan scowled, the crate somehow becoming even _more_ uncomfortable.

What he did know was how Lorcan worked, how he operated. If Rowan did decided to reunite with Aelin, then he would have to keep his distance. Because Lorcan was expert at finding pressure points, and using them to his advantage.

Lorcan already knew that Aelin had turned Rowan away from Maeve, knew that Rowan had chosen her over his oath, over his life.

Idiot. He was such an idiot when it came to her.

If Lorcan found out that there was anything more, that there were other, deeper feelings –

No, Rowan could keep his distance. He could keep those thoughts under control because he _had_ to. Not only because they did no good, but because they might get Aelin killed. Or worse, captured and taken back to Maeve.

But Rowan knew that he wouldn’t be able to deal with Lorcan without her – that he wouldn’t be able to return to Rifthold without reuniting with her. No matter how much easier it might be to keep her safe if he stayed away.

The only thing that was keeping him sane was the thought that at the end of this journey through hell, stuffed in this tiny rutting box that smelled like dung, unable to lay down properly for _weeks,_ was an image of Aelin’s face. Even if she wasn’t happy to see him, even if she didn’t forgive him breaking his oath.

For the first time in weeks, he was heading towards her, instead of away.

So Rowan curled up and turned on his side, and tried to get some sleep, as the shouts of the sailors above him faded into the rising dawn.

···

Across Wendlyn, Emrys was stirring a large pot of rabbit stew, listening to the potatoes crackling as they fried on the stove. It was a lot of work, feeding this many people each and every day. But Emrys loved it, caring for this large family of his. Making sure they were all fed. Taking in strays.

Aelin Galathynius had been such a stray, and he couldn’t say that he didn’t miss her. But he knew that she was where she was meant to be, doing what she was meant to do. No matter what that prince said, or how much he tried to hide, Emrys knew that Aelin had survived her encounter with Maeve, that they both had escaped. Together. And now she’d moved on to other – perhaps even greater – foes.

Even when she was all the way across the ocean Emrys was worried about her.

The old male just sighed, then shuffled over to the counter to begin chopping scallions to add to the stew.

But before he could start, he was interrupted by the afternoon courier, bearing a letter for him – of all people.

Emrys wiped his hands off on his apron, and took the letter from the boy’s fingers. It was unmarked, but the paper was old and worn. As if it had lived in someone’s saddlebags for some time.

Emrys ripped it open, then read through it. Unable to keep a smile off his face.

_That scoundrel._

He began to untie his apron, then headed out of the kitchen to go find Luca. Emrys couldn’t really find it in himself to be disappointed in the prince, even if he _had_ abandoned them. Had left Luca with his grief and his guilt.

The boy had finally told him and Malakai about what had happened, and they had talked and cried together into the wee hours of the morning. Even so, Emrys had really hoped that Rowan might be there to help Luca through that grief. He knew that Luca had too.

But it was not to be. Perhaps they might see each other again, in years to come. Perhaps Rowan might even be their king one day.

Emrys almost wanted to laugh. He could already see the scowl that would twist Malakai’s face when he told him the news. Rowan, gone off to chase the future. Leaving them to tend to this little piece of the present.

When Emrys told Luca what was in the letter, the boy smiled too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always - please let me know what you think! im hoping to get the next one out much faster, i already know exactly what has to be written, but this one fought me a lot more than i thought it would so i guess we'll just have to see!
> 
> my tumblr is @cicada-bones


	4. The Voyage

Rowan was in hell.

For perhaps the first time, he truly understood why his other form was a hawk. Being stuck in this box for such long sweeps of time, with nothing to do or see and no room at all to stretch, was pushing his tolerance to the very limit.

Fae were built for the wild places, for wood and hill and fen. Rowan was no different – he’d been built for the mountains, for the wind and the wild. And right now, he was missing them more than he thought possible.

And it was rutting hot.

Surrounded by masses of wool, stuck in the base of a ship filled up with boilingly hot air that never seemed to move – it was enough to roast him alive. By the second day, he’d cut off most of his hair, with the justification that once he landed in Adarlan, it would only get in the way. But it had hardly helped.

Slowly, his sleep schedules were reversed as he huddled in that vile wooden prison through the daylight hours, scrounging for rest whenever he could get it. Which only made the nightmares even worse; images of her face, dead, screaming, tortured, endlessly haunted him. Until not even pleasant dreams, dreams of her mouth, of her _touch_ – could chase them away.

Through the long hours in that woolen nest, Rowan found his mind lingering on the shape of those lips, far, far too often.

It wasn’t until night that he could chance an escape, coming out only when the sky was its deepest black to take a piss and steal a few morsels of bread and cheese. A few times, Rowan even risked stretching his wings, knowing that it would be the last time he would be able to in the foreseeable future. But those moments were rare, and short.

Mostly, Rowan sat in his makeshift, self-imposed cell, and stewed.

He couldn’t know for sure what Aelin was planning to do upon her arrival in Rifthold. But he could try to figure out what _he_ wanted to do.

Rowan was the first member of her court. Her Second, her lieutenant. And it would fall to him to form the foundation for her court. To set the precedent for which all would follow.

As a boy, his uncle had schooled him in the Old Ways, had taught him their code, down to the letter. To protect and serve, not only your leaders, but your people. To divine what was necessary from what was malicious. When to rely on others, and when to stand alone. How the struggle for virtue and justice was always a voyage, never a destination.

Then Lorcan had showed him how to conform its laws to the ways of their Queen. And together, they had all tried their best to follow them.

That shared code was what allowed his cadre to function as a group, what kept them from fracturing into parts, from ripping out each other’s throats. It helped them understand each other, turning them into a lethal unit. Maeve was a sadist, but even she understood the benefits of _that._ So she had let them.

And for centuries, Rowan had not seen beyond that _._ Could not see beyond that.

Even though deep down, he’d known that it wasn’t enough. That trying to follow that code while serving Maeve was futile, was doomed to failure. Because she had no interest in such a code for herself.

Rowan had blinded himself. Or at least he had allowed himself to be blinded – by power and sex and influence and violence and the unending, insufficient distraction of it all.

Now, he could be better. He could make something better.

Because he followed a queen who was better.

Aelin would never force them into anything, would always be searching for the answer with the lowest cost, forever serving her people far before she served herself. Rowan could form her court, _their_ court, around those ideals, and ensure that they stuck. And maybe, in that small way, he could try to atone for all the damage he had wrought on the world in serving Maeve for all those centuries.

He knew that Aelin had forgiven him for it, that she saw him for exactly who he was and still trusted him. But Rowan wasn’t quite sure he would ever be able to forgive himself. For all those years of violence and terror and destruction.

But he would try. He would try for her.

And together they would form a court that would rule for millennia to come. That would rule until all the nations he knew had faded even from memory, until their castles were nothing but ruins and the seas had swallowed up their lands, leaving only blank spots on maps he would never see.

···

The days slid past. And things were mostly quiet all the way through the Eastern continent to Doranelle, where a cold silence emanated from the west wing of Maeve’s palace. But the silence was far from natural. The castle was simply…empty. And Fenrys was as close to desperate as he had ever been.

During her outburst, Maeve had killed nearly an entire guard of soldiers. Half her handmaidens. Even more cooks and gardeners and pageboys and chimneysweeps.

Nearly fifty males and females. _Fifty._

All had been in the palace or somewhere in the surrounding grounds when her darkness had descended. Those closest to her had vaporized instantly. Those slightly farther away awoke to broken bodies and minds that were far from what they once had been. Many, lost them completely.

The only reason more hadn’t been killed was because of the stubborn efforts of his brother, Gavriel, and Vaughan, who nearly lost their own lives shielding the castle from her wash of terror and darkness.

It had been hours before Fenrys could get anything out of Connall. Hours before he understood why this had happened, why Maeve had seemingly lost her mind, why Connall looked so goddamned _betrayed._

Lorcan had left them. Had taken that ring and run, like a thief in the night. Like he had been planning it for years, only waiting for the right opportunity. Like he had nothing and no one to keep him.

As if the blood oath didn’t even exist.

For perhaps the one and only time in his life, Fenrys thought he might understand where Maeve was coming from – Rowan was gone, and Lorcan had left them alone to pick up the pieces.

The center was crumbling. And Maeve knew it.

She hadn’t been seen in days. And Fenrys was glad of it. He knew that once she reappeared, Connall, Gavriel, and Vaughan would likely be punished for their interference. For saving all those people. And even though he hadn’t even been there, Fenrys doubted he would be excluded from her fun. Maeve made no secret that he was her favorite.

Or perhaps her least favorite, depending on how you put it.

Either way, Fenrys was glad of the time. Time they spent in repair – in explanations to mourning families, in training new castle guards, and in repairing the cracked stone that had spiderwebbed through the underbelly of the fortress, keeping the castle from crumbling about their ears.

Time that Fenrys knew Connall spent in mourning. In just a few short weeks, his brother had lost his two great mentors, the males he had looked up to all his life.

When Fenrys had first become Maeve’s bloodsworn, his days had been a violent mix of pain and betrayal and disgust and anger. But there was joy there too. Joy in being trained by the two most powerful males in the land, and joy in sharing that training with his brother.

Joy in seeing how ecstatic Connall was, to finally taste all those things that Fenrys had always taken for granted.

Connall had always wanted to be a fabled warrior-knight. To charge through battle and story and song, to be forever remembered by the bards. And Rowan Whitethorn and Lorcan Salvaterre? They were everything that Connall had dreamed of.

They walked in and out of legends and battles and far-off lands the way most of us tread the well-worn paths to the nearest well. And Connall idolized them for it.

Now, Fenrys thought his brother might be seeing the consequences of that idolatry.

Dark circles marked his eyes, and there was a certain heaviness in his limbs when he walked. At meals, Connall pushed his food around his plate, not seeming to eat much of anything. Yes, his brother had taken this betrayal hard. Perhaps nearly as hard as their queen had – though they certainly showed it in different ways.

Maeve pushed out, destroying everything in her path. Connall sunk inwards, becoming cold and empty and hollow.

While all Fenrys wanted to do was rage.

He didn’t understand how the old bastard had done it. How Lorcan had gotten around the laws and weight and agony of the bloodoath, seemingly without effort. Lorcan had managed the one and only thing that Fenrys had thought truly denied to him – he had betrayed their queen. Had stolen from her. And then, the truly impossible:

He had gotten away.

That _bastard._

So, Fenrys spent those days fuming, even as his brother withdrew into an empty shell. Gavriel, meanwhile, was trying to pick up the pieces, best that he could.

Fenrys knew that the old male had never thought to lead, not in all his long years. Knew that he hadn’t really prepared for it. And now that leadership was thrust upon him, he could tell that Gavriel was finding it an unwelcome burden.

Not that he was incompetent, or was somehow failing to rise to the occasion – no, Gavriel was just _uncomfortable._ Uncomfortable taking charge, making decisions, delegating missions, and most of all – uncomfortable doling out punishment.

But none of them had any other choice, especially as their queen was so absent. So Fenrys watched as Gavriel shouldered his new role, watched as Connall sunk into himself, watched as Vaughan made himself scarce. And he found himself getting angrier and angrier and angrier.

Until one day, they were once again called into Maeve’s throne room.

To Fenrys’ relief, Maeve seemed uninterested in their punishment. Instead, they knelt before her for long minutes while she looked over each of them ever so carefully, her gaze falling upon them with all the weight of her power.

She studied each of them as if they might be next. As if they were harboring those same treasons, those seeds of betrayal. As if she might be able to see them if she just looked hard enough. And perhaps she could.

They knelt until the stone branded their knees like ice, until their stillness was cut through with trembling, until all their muscles ached to be stretched into another position, _any other_ position. And still, Maeve waited.

Until finally, “I’m sure by now you must know what happened.”

Silence.

Fenrys realized that he was expecting her to smile, to unveil that little seed of malice. For her to reveal her joy in their discomfort. But Maeve’s face was clear as a blanket of untouched snow.

A chill went down his spine.

“My Second has stolen from me. And gone off to join Brannon’s heir, of all people, in her rampage across the western continent.”

Fenrys kept his gaze glued to the base of the throne, even as he heard Gavriel shift in discomfort. Loyal to a fault. Even when loyalty became dangerous.

“Rest assured, he will be punished. Severely.” Fenrys thought he could feel the steel glint in her eye as she stared down Gavriel. “But that is not why I have called you here today.”

The chill down his spine turned into a shiver.

“I called you here to rally our armies.”

···

Lorcan was in agony.

He’d had no idea how horrific losing his powers would be, no idea how hollowed out and violating it would feel to have his magic scooped up and taken from him, as easy as fishing a trout from a clear-running stream.

He’d spent days curled up on that pitiful cot the captain called a bed, vomiting his guts out and just generally wanting to murder anyone near his vicinity. Luckily for everyone onboard, Lorcan wasn’t feeling particularly up to much of anything at the moment. Which honestly might have been the only thing keeping most of the crew from dying quick, yet exceedingly painful, deaths.

 _And_ the fact that Lorcan doubted that even he would’ve been able to get this ship to harbor without a crew.

So instead of rampaging through the decks, much as he might like to, Lorcan shut himself in his cabin and barely moved, even to eat or piss. He tried to tell himself that at least the pain served as a distraction from the shithole that his life had become.

But who the fuck was he kidding. His life was a goddamn shithole either way.

Lorcan moaned and turned over on the mattress as the nausea peaked once again, cursing at everything under the sun.

What he would give to be headed literally anywhere else.

He let out another rash of cursing.

Instead of mulling over choices that were made and done with, he tried to turn his attention to the future, and the bitch-queen that was waiting for him there. It hadn’t been an accident that he’d passed by Mistward on his flight from Doranelle to the coast. He had gone as close to the fortress as he dared, knowing that the scent trail he left behind would be exactly the lure he needed to draw Rowan out, and back into the fray. His former Second was the only lead he would have when they arrived in Rifthold, his only path to whom he sought.

Aelin Galathynius.

Lorcan was positive that Rowan would think he’d been sent to kill her, or at least capture her, and bring her back to Doranelle. Sure that Rowan would do everything he could to keep his newer, younger, _weaker_ queen, safe from harm. But in the process, Whitethorn would lead him straight to her.

Where he then would start the long journey of uncovering the keys.

The only way he could keep his queen safe, the only way he could keep her from destroying herself, was by removing the tools of that destruction before she could even acquire them.

He knew she would never forgive him for it. He was trying his best not to care. And failing miserably.

But it didn’t matter. _So long as she was safe,_ he told himself. So long as Maeve was safe, he would pay any cost. Would take any punishment. And in the end, he would return to her, no matter what he might face at her hand.

Lorcan was going to steal those keys right out from under that bitch-queen’s nose, and he was going to destroy them any way he could. And when his task was finally done, be it in a year or in a hundred, he would come back. He would return home, to Doranelle. To his queen. His love.

And if she killed him for his betrayal, if she decided that his life was the price of the keys’ destruction, Lorcan would die well. He would die as her most loyal servant, one who knew better how to serve her than she did herself. And he would die loving her, die because of his love for her.

And that would just have to be enough.

So instead of thinking of the doubts of the past, the bleakness of the future, or the agony of the present, Lorcan let his aching limbs pull him into a restless sleep. Where he dreamed, strangely enough, of a girl with ratty black hair. A mortal girl, stuck between layers of cold stone. Stuck like an animal in a trap, desperate to be free. And there was something…something in her eyes, that he just couldn’t place…

When he awoke, Lorcan couldn’t remember the girl at all. But he had the sense that he’d had that same dream before.

···

When Rowan had decided to come to Adarlan, he hadn’t really thought about what it would be like to lose his magic. Even in planning Aelin’s crossing, it had scarcely crossed his mind. The two of them had talked about the difficulties of having to work without magic once they got to Adarlan, yes – but not once had Rowan considered the difficulty of losing it in the first place.

In retrospect, he’d been arrogant. Dangerously so.

Losing his power was painful to the point of agonizing. The shock and nausea had been debilitating, keeping him confined to his crate for days while he waited for it to pass, and tried his very best not to be sick in the tiny, already-insanely-uncomfortable-even-without-the-smell-of-vomit, space. He only mostly succeeded.

In all his life, Rowan had never experienced anything like it. Not even when strapped in iron did he feel so utterly wrecked. For then, it was like his powers were muted, muffled. Now it was as though his powers had been ripped from him, an amputated limb.

Although his heightened senses weren’t affected, his tie to the winds had been severed – meaning they could no longer whisper to him. Where there usually was a steady stream of information, now was only static. It made him feel like his head was full of bees.

And his other form, the part of his soul that yearned for freedom and flight, had been taken away completely, the separation far from clean. It almost felt as though there should be a rippling scar, right over his heart. Marking the place where his hawk had lain in wait.

It took days to get used to the sensation, and days more to learn to think around it. But by the time that Rowan heard the sailors above shout signs of land, he was more than ready to be free of that damned woolen crate.

Rowan wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to walk past a field of sheep without wincing. And the smell – _ungh._ He definitely wouldn’t be able to get it all the way out of his clothes. Perhaps Aelin would turn him away before he could even plead his case, thinking him nothing more than a homeless shepherd. Perhaps she would take one whiff of him and run.

From the sounds coming from the upper decks, it seemed as though he might know the answer by tonight.

That afternoon was one of the longest of Rowan’s existence. The ship seemed to meander towards shore, leisurely finding an empty space at the docks before finally dropping anchor. And it took ages before the sounds of sailors above began to fade as they all headed off to bars and inns and whorehouses, looking to get drunk for a few hours, and maybe find their way into someone else’s bed.

In another life, Rowan would have been joining them.

Instead, he carefully removed the back of the crate, inched himself out of his prison, then cautiously put the wood back in place. Hopefully he would be long gone before anyone noticed the strangeness of the mostly empty box. Then Rowan stole through the shadows, ducking beneath beams and up ladders, relying on his nose and ears to mark his path out of the belly of the ship. Something he hadn’t needed to do since he was a boy.

 _I will get used to this,_ Rowan thought _._ It would just take time.

By the time evening had fallen, Rowan was striding through Rifthold’s shipyards, pulling his cloak about him and searching the air for any hint, any scent –

He started, stopping in his tracks and inhaling deep.

Lorcan Salvaterre. Just a trace on the wind. But he had been here, recently too. Rowan desperately wanted to follow the trail, to track Lorcan through the city. But then he wouldn’t be able to warn Aelin, and Lorcan knew that Rowan couldn’t be far behind, knew that he was following him. No matter how carefully Rowan tracked him, he would just be playing right into Lorcan’s hands.

It was still so strange to think of him as an enemy.

So Rowan just shook his head then continued on through the wharf and towards the city.

Rifthold sprawled out before him, a lanky cat stretching through the river valley with its pale buildings and grey smoke, hard cobblestones and soft cloth awnings. The city buildings never seemed to reach beyond three or four stories, creating a mostly level skyline on which the glass castle soared upwards to the clouds.

It was massive, even larger than Maeve’s palace. A towering maze of bright crystal, turrets and bridges and domes all glowing softly with the light of the setting sun. It was placed atop the bones of the original stone castle, which looked cold and unwelcoming by comparison. The heavens and the dungeons.

Rowan wasn’t sure whether he thought it was beautiful. He knew that he was definitely supposed to, knew that the sheer cost of so much glass was meant to garner his respect and affection. But he couldn’t help but feel as though he were faced with a dazzling, brightly-colored flower, its beauty a distraction from the poison that surely lay within.

That was the castle where Aelin had been imprisoned, the castle of mystery and intrigue and hidden doors and tunnels and tombs. In her stories, it had always seemed so fascinating, its city a wealth of music and art and life.

_Time to find out whether he had been right._

Rowan crossed beneath a stone archway and entered the city proper, his head down and posture slumped. The city guards didn’t even give him a second glance.

Aelin had mentioned her apartment lay somewhere in the slums, so that would be where he went, even if it didn’t end up being where she was actually staying. As he walked, Rowan made sure to double back on himself often, and to cut through various taverns, alleys, and shops in order to confuse his scent trail as much as possible.

Only once he was sure that nobody was following him, and reasonably positive that no one would be able to pick up his trail, did Rowan turn west towards the slums.

He spent hours just wandering, searching for any hint of Aelin’s scent. While he looked, he catalogued the patterns of the city. Marking guards, lookouts, the movements of citizens and travelers, the quiet and busy streets, and the rhythms of the various neighborhoods.

And he was uneasy to discover that there were two kinds of guards that patrolled the city streets.

One wore red, and joked and teased and messed around and generally acted the way you might expect of the average city boy. But there was another who wore all black, the image of a wyvern stitched to their clothing. They acted like packs of wolves. Vicious yet determined – solid, unshakable units that marched through the city as if they were conquering it. They did not speak among themselves unless necessary, and they followed their captains as if any deviation from their orders would end in either catastrophe, or great pain.

These soldiers were avoided by the citizens of Rifthold at all costs, and their presence was enough to empty a formerly busy square. And the second Rowan passed close by a small group of them, his suspicions were confirmed. Each and every one of the black-uniformed guards was Valg.

Though the scent was slightly weaker than it had been in Wendlyn, there was no way Rowan could mistake the taste of that rotting death, festering beneath the skin, the eyes that were black as night, the unmistakable shadows of black blood pulsing beneath their stony flesh.

Rifthold was rife with demons. And though their dark magics were just as suppressed as his own, Rowan was hardly comforted. This city was a tinderbox just waiting for the match.

He wondered if Aelin had come to light it.

Rowan redoubled his focus on the movements of the guards, tracking them out of the corners of his eyes and concentrating on diminishing his presence as best he could. He didn’t know whether they had been ordered to sniff out Fae, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. For the first time, he was glad of the rancid stench swirling around him, suppressing that of his heritage.

So the hours passed, with not even a hint of the presence of his Queen.

Rifthold was large enough that Rowan wasn’t _really_ worried that Aelin could be gone just yet, but the thought had certainly crossed his mind several times by the time the clock struck midnight.

She wasn’t dead, he knew that much. Even in Mistward their bond was strong enough that he would be able to tell if she had been killed. But without a far more extensive investigation, Rowan wouldn’t be able to tell if she was injured, or kidnapped, or had just left Rifthold for elsewhere.

She had no reason to expect him, no reason to be waiting for him. By his best estimate, Aelin had arrived in the capital eleven or twelve days ago, meaning that she could be as far as Anielle or even Morath by now, particularly if she had hired a fast horse. If she had taken another ship, who knows where she might be.

Rowan tried his best not to let those thoughts rule his mind, trying to keep his focus on scouring through the mist. For even if she was deep in Eyllwe, or the Red Desert, or even the frozen wastes, he would find her again. No matter how long it took.

Not for the first time that night, Rowan cursed his lack of magic, his need to remain inconspicuous. If only he could fly over the city, or at least move at normal speeds through the quieter streets, he might be able to find her that much faster.

Rowan was just beginning to debate finding lodging for the night, or at least going somewhere he might bathe and grab some food, when the soft sounds of laughing voices reached his ears.

One of them seemed like it might just be familiar.

The oath buried deep in his chest flickered in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger (but not really - mwahaha!)  
> As always please let me know what you think!  
> my tumblr is @cicada-bones


	5. Reunion

Rowan tensed, the blood in his veins spiking with apprehension. The laughing group was just down the street, only a few blocks away from him. But they were hidden from his sight by a thick blanket of fog.

However, that meant that he was also hidden - so Rowan could take his time.

His senses strained as every sound, sight, and smell from within a quarter mile came streaming into him. He could hear _everything,_ from the drops of fetid rainwater off a nearby gutter, to the whipping of the wind around a sharp corner, the pattering of rats’ paws in the alleyways, the snoring of an old man, warm in his bed, and the giggling of his daughter as she stayed up well past her bedtime, her soft hands rifling through a well-worn book.

Then there were the scents of the city. Rancid and foul place that it was, there were still some pleasant things to be found – such as the soft clouds of flour from a corner bakery just beginning to wake for the morning rush, burning sage and melting candlewax, a lavender sprig wilting in a nearby window, and –

And then he tasted it. The barest hint of jasmine, lemon verbena, and flickering embers. The scent of home.

The oath in his chest seemed to purr with delight.

Aelin was here. She was _right here –_

But she wasn’t alone.

Rowan could hear the quiet steps of one– no, two others. The first was small and light-footed, probably a young mortal woman, who smelled of mint and some kind of southern spice…almost like pepper and fig leaves. The other was a male, perhaps a young demi-Fae. Though his movements were quiet, his steps were far heavier, marking him at over 6 feet.

There was also the scent of blood about the male, which had Rowan’s hackles rising. But it was old and sour – likely an old wound whose infection had only just begun to heal over. And as their movements were light and unhindered, their conversation free and open, Rowan wasn’t particularly worried that a fight was brewing. But still, his guard stayed up.

The man’s true scent spoke of warm furs and roasting chestnuts and…and something else, something almost… _familiar._

His thoughts distracted, trying to place the strange smell, Rowan unthinkingly shifted his stance, causing the soft scrape of leather on stone to echo through the fog.

And the tension in his body ratcheted to new heights as he felt the group fall abruptly silent.

All was still. Rowan’s hands began to sweat. 

_What if she wasn’t happy to see him? What if she ordered him back to Wendlyn?_

Rowan did his best to rally his thoughts, as he slowly made his way forwards through the mist. Making sure that each of his movements were choreographed far in advance. He didn’t want to surprise them, particularly that strange male, whose scent he still could not place…

And then Rowan was breaking through the fog, and he could finally see them, could finally see _her._ Vaguely he heard the male and the young woman say something to each other, but Rowan couldn’t tear his eyes or ears away from the cloaked woman standing stock-still barely a dozen feet from him, her lovely scent billowing with shock.

Aelin’s face was covered with a hood, so he couldn’t see her reaction to him, couldn’t know if she recognized him. But then she was taking a hesitant step forwards and loosing a shuddering breath and a small, whimpering noise that was almost a sob. And suddenly, Rowan felt all of his worries disappear as easily as the morning snow beneath the midday sun.

It was _Aelin._ And of course she didn’t hate him, of course she was as relieved to see him as he was to see her.

And then she was running, running straight into his arms and Rowan could feel his every muscle, his every bone all the way through to his _soul,_ sighing in relief. Relief that she was here, that they were together again. Relief that he was touching her once more.

Rowan grabbed Aelin and pulled her into his embrace, his arms wrapping completely around her small frame as she buried her head into his neck. He curled around her, breathing in her scent as if it were the last drops of water in a blistering desert, as if it were a life-saving elixir. As if her scent alone would take him from the brink of hell.

Rowan didn’t realize truly how much he’d missed her until that moment.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Rowan registered that she was crying.

“How did you get here? How did you _find_ me?” Aelin pulled just far enough away that he could see the edges of her face beneath the hooded cloak; the pointed chin, the delicate nose, those beautiful, upturned lips –

Rowan slowly found his voice. “You made it clear my kind wouldn’t be welcome on your continent. So I stowed away on a ship. You’d mentioned a home in the slums, so when I arrived this evening, I wandered until I picked up your scent.”

As he spoke, his eyes scanned over her, carefully assessing.

She was changed. Even though only a month or so had passed since he last held her, Aelin seemed different. Older. She carried herself with more weight, more authority.

His mouth tightened. “You have a lot to tell me.”

She only nodded, gripping his shoulders even harder. And Rowan couldn’t say he was displeased with _that._

Rowan carefully raised his right hand, and brushed it against the softness of her cheek, tucking a lock of golden hair behind her ear. “But you’re not hurt,” he said softly, needing to make absolutely sure. “You’re safe?”

Aelin just nodded again, burying her face in his chest.

Rowan felt as though the city could fall apart around them, and he would not move one inch. He would never be able to hold her for long enough.

“I thought I gave you an order to stay in Wendlyn.” It was almost a tease.

“I had my reasons, best spoken somewhere secure.” He didn’t like to evade the question, but he couldn’t speak of Lorcan in such an exposed place. So instead he changed the subject, “Your friends at the fortress say hello, by the way. I think they miss having an extra scullery maid. Especially Luca – especially in the mornings.”

Aelin laughed lightly, squeezing him once again. As if making sure he was real.

But tears still streamed down her cheeks, and Rowan found that he couldn’t keep his worry down any longer. Perhaps she _was_ injured, and was keeping the truth from him, trying to keep him from worrying –

“Why are you crying?” he asked, trying and failing to push her back far enough so he could read her face.

She refused to move a single inch.

“I’m crying,” she sniffled, “because you smell so rutting bad my eyes are watering.”

Rowan let out a roar of laughter, the sound so wild that he heard the vermin in the alleys go silent. And the gaze of Aelin’s two companions really started bore into him.

But Rowan payed them no heed as Aelin finally pulled away from him, a wry smile curving her lips. “Bathing isn’t an option for a stowaway,” he said, finally letting her go, but flicking her nose before she could sidle out of his reach.

Aelin shoved him right back.

All Rowan wanted was to push her in return – to touch her, poke her, prod her, until she was snarling and writhing and snapping her teeth.

But the demi-Fae male at the other end of the alley was eyeing him carefully, his scent a potent mix of worry and aggression and protectiveness. And Rowan knew that he wouldn’t be patient for much longer.

“Are you just going to make them stand there all night?” Rowan asked.

“Since when are you a stickler for manners?” Aelin slung an arm around his waist, as if she was worried he would disappear on her. Neglecting, of course, to remember that it was _she_ who disappeared on _him,_ and not the other way around.

But instead of fighting the point, Rowan just put his arm around her shoulders as together, they turned and walked back to where her companions were waiting for them.

As they approached, Rowan fully turned over his attention to the two strangers, carefully cataloguing their every move, scent, and sound. Taking note of the muscles they favored, each blade hidden beneath their clothes.

The woman, an archer if ever he’d seen one, looked out of place. As if she were desperate to get out of their hair. The male, however, looked as though he wouldn’t move for all the world.

His every gesture thrilled towards Rowan, his instincts screaming at him challenge him, to measure himself against him. And as Rowan drew closer, he finally placed that familiar piece in his scent – or at least he _thought_ he did.

The demi-Fae smelled of _Aelin,_ the scent layered and complex. His first thought was that they were sharing a bed, an idea that clanged through him, uncomfortably. But the scent was too old, too deep – and once Rowan spotted that golden hair, that fair skin, he knew that he must be looking at the face of Aedion Ashryver.

Aelin’s cousin.

His face was mostly covered, but from what Rowan could see, the bones were strong and sharp. Unforgiving. But the male was young, barely into his twenties, and he was still coming into his power.

The Fae blood in his veins was strong, stronger even than Aelin’s in some ways. Rowan couldn’t tell if he could shift – but if he could, Aedion Ashryver might even be strong enough to rival any in Maeve’s court. Perhaps strong enough to rival even him.

And Rowan knew that Aedion wanted to find out. Wanted to challenge him. To prove himself, to Rowan, to their queen.

Rank would have to be established.

No matter the male’s strength, he was still but a boy. And though he was reportedly a fine warrior, Rowan was one of Maeve’s war-torn lieutenants, was Aelin’s bloodsworn. Her Second.

Aedion would have to find his place. Rowan could only hope that he would do so gracefully, without bloodshed. He doubted it would much endear him to Aelin if he killed her cousin in some ill-begotten contest.

Aelin pinched Rowan’s side, and as he hissed in response, Rowan realized that the two of them had been locked in a stare. So Rowan casually broke their gaze and pinched Aelin’s shoulder right back.

He had been playing these games for a long time, had been playing them well before Aedion’s grandfather, and his father, and his father before him, had been more than a flicker in his mother’s womb. Touching Aelin so informally, refusing to acknowledge that challenge burning in Aedion’s eyes – they were signs of dominance, attempts to put the boy in his place.

And Aedion knew that. But he didn’t say anything as Aelin turned back towards the group, saying, “Let’s get inside.”

But the other woman, the archer, was edging away from the group, her eyes flickering between him and Aedion. “I’ll see you later,” she said, not seeming to refer to anyone in particular. And she barely waited a moment for a reaction before sidling into the shadows and out of sight.

Rowan stored his curiosity away for another time as Aelin pulled him forwards through the mist, and they headed deeper into the slums. Aedion fell carefully into step behind them, and Rowan could sense that the male hadn’t given up. Far from avoided, their confrontation had been delayed, allowing the roiling tension between them to build and build and build.

Rowan tried to keep himself from looking forwards to it. To ridding the boy of his arrogance, and cementing his own place with their queen. He didn’t succeed.

Together, the three of them walked through the night, Rowan keeping careful note of every sound, every flicker of movement, every strange scent. And this far into the slums, there were many of those. He did his best to ignore the rot and filth and vomit.

He also tried to keep himself from focusing too much on that empty space between his body and Aelin’s, the way that it seemed to crackle with energy. The way that he wanted to make it disappear.

No matter how many resolutions he made, how many times he told himself that he couldn’t pursue her, that it would be a mistake to let themselves get any closer, it all seemed to go up in flames the second her eyes locked with his. The second her scent curled in his nostrils.

But he didn’t have a choice – he _had_ to keep control of himself.

They walked together until they came upon an unremarkable wooden warehouse, and Aelin fell to a stop. For a moment, they paused while Rowan examined it – making note of every entrance and exit, every window, every dimension. Only once he was absolutely sure the building was empty did Rowan step aside, allowing Aelin to unlock the rolling metal door and enter.

Tugging him by the hand, she led him through a large storeroom, mostly empty besides a few stacks of wooden crates that smelled of ink, and towards a wooden staircase that led to the second level, where Rowan guessed they would find her apartment.

But whatever expectations he had unconsciously formed, once Aelin turned the lock on that bright green door and revealed her home to him, Rowan knew that there was no way he could have ever anticipated _this._

The apartment was fit for a king. Plush, luscious couches, mahogany furniture, hardwood floors topped with soft woolen rugs, a carved marble fireplace, and just so many books. They were everywhere, on the large dining table at one side of the room, stacked on the floor by the couch, on shelves framing the fireplace, atop the mantelpiece – even piled high on one of the soft armchairs.

Aelin had carved out an oasis for herself, right in the middle of the least likely place imaginable.

While Rowan examined the apartment, Aedion had moved in from behind them and was now standing beside the fireplace, his hood still up, hands within easy reach of his weapons. Not that it would make a difference.

From what Rowan could see, there were at least two bedrooms and a kitchen in addition to this larger, shared space. But before he could make a thorough survey of the building, Aelin was tightening her grip on his arm and saying, “Aedion, meet Rowan. Rowan, meet Aedion. His Highness needs a bath or I’ll vomit if I have to sit next to him for more than a minute.” Then she was dragging him into the next room and shutting the door behind them.

For the life of him, Rowan didn’t know why it made a difference, this being alone with her. A simple closed door. But it did.

They were now in what Rowan could only suppose was her bedroom. Aelin was leaning against the closed door, and he could feel her studying him.

Rowan turned, studying her right back. Her lithe body was clothed in some tight-fitting material, though much of her silhouette was still obscured by that damned cloak. Along with most of her face.

But he didn’t miss it as Aelin bit her lip.

Against his will, Rowan’s eyes slid to her mouth, his blood running hot as the space between them went taut.

“Take off your hood,” Rowan said, his voice rougher than he intended.

Aelin crossed her arms. “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine, Prince.”

He pursed his lips, then yanked back his hood. “From tears to sass in a few minutes. I’m glad the month apart hasn’t dimmed your usual good spirits.”

“Your hair! You cut it all off!” She rushed towards him, pulling off her own hood as the distance between them closed. And it took all of Rowan’s self-control not to reach out and touch her again.

She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Rowan didn’t know if that was due to a fault of memory, or if she actually _had_ become more stunning during the month separating them, but he didn’t much care.

Her gold-and-turquoise eyes still pierced him through, and even though she no longer had her magic, they still seemed just as molten. But for some strange reason, she had decided to dye her hair a flat, uninteresting shade of red. It was dull, and did nothing for her pretty skin.

He wanted to scowl at it.

“Since you seemed to think that we would be doing a good amount of fighting here, shorter hair is more useful. Though I can’t say that your hair might be considered the same. You might as well have dyed it blue.”

“Hush. Your hair was so pretty. I was hoping you’d let me braid it one day. I suppose I’ll have to buy a pony instead.” She cocked her head, her eyes dangerous. “When you shift, will your hawk form be plucked, then?”

His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. _Yes,_ he thought, _I have missed this._

Aelin barely kept her laugh in.

Rowan tried to change the subject, turning to look over the lavish bedroom. “You weren’t lying about your taste for luxury.”

That was an understatement. The space was beautiful and warm and welcoming – and not only because it was filled to the brim with her scent.

Candles dotted every surface, casting a soft warm light. The bed was in the corner, beside the entrance to an attached bathroom. And Rowan was sure that it would be more comfortable than any bed he had ever slept in. Across the room was another marble fireplace, the door to a very large closet, and a window gracing the adjacent wall. Along with yet more books.

“Not all of us enjoy living in warrior-squalor,” she said, grabbing his hand again. Rowan gave up on conversation and instead closed his fingers around hers. Another moment passed while they just looked at each other.

Those eyes – they were full of secrets. Of stories.

Rowan opened his mouth to demand that she explain everything, to explain why her cousin was here, why she seemed so heavy with worry, why the city was teeming with Valg – but Aelin cut him off before he could speak, pulling them into the bathroom. 

She flitted about the room, lighting a few candles by the sink and on the ledge above the tub, saying, “I meant it about the bath.” She twisted the faucets and plugged the drain. “You stink.” She bent to grab a towel from the small cabinet by the toilet.

Rowan was starting to worry that she was purposely avoiding telling him what had happened this past month. His voice was flat as he said, “Tell me everything.”

Aelin was silent, grabbing a green vial of some gritty power and another of what he thought was an oil, and dumping generous amounts of each into the rising bathwater, turning it milky and opaque.

“I will, when you’re soaking in the bath and don’t smell like a vagrant.”

“If memory serves, you smelled even worse when we first met. And I didn’t shove you into the nearest trough in Varese.”

She just glared at him. “Funny.”

Rowan’s face almost split into a grin. “You made my eyes water for the entire damn journey to Mistward.”

“Just _get in.”_

Chuckling, Rowan obeyed her, and began the long process of undressing. Before he could wonder whether she would be staying to watch him strip, Aelin turned from the room, shrugging off her cloak and unstrapping her various weapons. But she neglected to shut the door behind her.

Rowan stripped anyways, discarding his clothes carelessly on the floor and placing his weapons atop the cabinet, next to all those mysterious bottles and vials. By the time she was done with him, she’d probably have him smelling the like a gods-damned flower shop.

Rowan just sighed, lowering himself carefully in the tub and shutting off the faucets. He had to keep himself from groaning at the delectable warmth – the hot bathwater was almost as pleasant as the relief of holding Aelin had been.

But only almost.

A few moments passed as Rowan began the sorry task of scrubbing away at the thick layer of dirt and grime covering him. All the while trying desperately to keep himself from listening _too_ closely to the sounds of cloth on skin coming from the bedroom, as Aelin pulled off that tight black suit of hers and changed into something more comfortable.

It made Rowan wish that Aelin had drawn a colder bath.

By the time Aelin returned, the water was so clouded by soap and dirt that he doubted she could see anything beneath.

He could feel the weight of her gaze on him, her eyes flowing over all his exposed skin. But Rowan didn’t acknowledge her, instead continuing to scrub at his check and shoulders, splashing water on his face.

She only handed him a washcloth, saying, “Here.” And he wasn’t sure, but her voice almost seemed rougher than usual. Rowan just dunked the cloth in the water and began rubbing it over his face, his neck, his chest.

Aelin was still looking at him.

Another moment passed, and then she mutely handed him some lavender soap. Rowan sighed in resignation, accepting his fate. He would just have to smell like a flower shop – Lorcan would be shocked to see him now.

Then Aelin sat on the curved lip of the porcelain tub and began to speak.

She told him of her journey across the ocean, of the plans she had made and of losing her magic. Of arriving in Rifthold and immediately setting after Arobynn, and learning of what had happened here through the spring – of Dorian and Chaol and Aedion, and what they’d lost in the wake of the king’s wrath. How she’d discovered that Dorian was now possessed by a Valg. How she’d failed to kill him, but managed to save Aedion from certain death. She told him of meeting Nesryn, the woman from earlier, who was a pretty great shot. And of getting to know Lysandra and Evangeline, who were still trapped under Arobynn’s thumb.

She spoke very little of Chaol, and whether she had let him back into her life. And she said nothing at all of her plans for the future. But Rowan knew that he would have to be satisfied with what she did tell him. At least for now.

By the time her story of demons and danger and deceit was done, Rowan was nearly finished washing himself, and the bathwater was considerably less warm. Once again, Rowan found himself mourning their missing magics. Aelin would be able to keep the bath warm with less than half a thought.

Rowan absentmindedly raised the soap to his head, thinking to wash his hair with it, when Aelin squeaked. “You don’t use that in your hair!” she hissed, quickly standing up and rifling through the cabinet of bottles and vials.

Rowan scowled, heavily considering dolloping the lavender soap on his hair while she wasn’t looking. But patience won out.

“Rose, lemon verbena, or …” Aelin sniffed at the glass bottle. “Jasmine.” She squinted down at him.

Rowan just looked back up at her. _Do I look like I care what you pick?_

She clicked her tongue. “Jasmine it is, you buzzard.” She moved to stand just out of sight at the head of the bathtub, and before he really realized what was happening, Aelin had already dumped some of the sweet-smelling tonic on his head and her hands were brushing the top of his head, rubbing in the soap.

Rowan knew that he was supposed to stop this, knew that this was far, far too intimate. Knew that this was coming very close to breaking all of those careful rules he had set for himself.

But the second he felt her touch, all of his resistance crumbled to dust.

Her fingers weren’t rough, but they weren’t _too_ gentle, either. Aelin found exactly the right amount of pressure as she massaged the soap into his scalp, moving from his hairline to his ears to his neck and back again.

The scent of the oil wafted down towards him, mixed in with her own scent. And without thinking, Rowan took in a slow breath, luxuriating in the scent. It felt as though his face was being caressed with the taste of night-kissed jasmine.

Aelin’s fingers began playing with his hair. “I could still probably braid this,” she teased. “Very teensy-tiny braids, so – ”

Rowan growled, more out of habit than real irritation. He couldn’t help but lean into her touch, closing his eyes as he felt his whole body relax.

“You’re no better than a house cat.”

Rowan couldn’t even summon the will for a rebuttal. Instead, he let out a low noise in his throat, a sound of pure pleasure. It might as well have been a purr.

Rowan hardly cared.

He knew he’d probably yell at himself for this later. But Rowan _also_ knew that he wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything. And no matter how upset he might be in a few hours, he knew he would never regret it.

Just as Rowan was beginning to wonder whether Aelin’s fingers were starting to prune, she spoke up. “You haven’t said anything about your magic.”

He tensed, and Aelin’s hands stilled. “What about it?”

Rowan felt her lean down to peer at his face, her hair sliding from behind her shoulders to stroke the back of his neck. It sent a warm shiver down his spine.

“I take it it’s gone,” she said. “How does it feel to be as powerless as a mortal?”

He opened his eyes, his brow falling into a scowl. “It’s not funny.”

“Do I look like I’m laughing?”

“I spent the first few days sick to my stomach and barely able to move. It was like having a blanket thrown over my senses.”

“And now?”

“And now I’m dealing with it.”

She poked him in the shoulder. “Grumpy, grumpy.”

Rowan snarled in annoyance – but it was more at the fact that she had removed her hands from his scalp, than at her teasing. Aelin only pursed her lips and pushed down on his shoulders, silently asking him to dunk his head underwater.

He did so, and by the time he emerged, Aelin was standing and holding out a bath towel for him to use. “I’m going to find you some clothes.”

“I have – ”

“Oh, no. Those are going right to the laundress. And you’ll get them back only if she can make them smell decent again. Until then, you’ll wear whatever I give you.”

“You’ve become a tyrant, Princess,” he said as he took the towel from her.

Aelin just rolled her eyes, turning away from the bathtub just as Rowan stood up, water sloshing everywhere. She didn’t look back at him, moving straight across the bedroom and directly into the huge closet.

Rowan was somehow simultaneously disappointed and very, very relieved. He didn’t know if he would be able to control himself if she saw him – her long looks were already heavy enough as it was.

But still, there was that other voice. The one that wanted her to see all of him. Just as he had already seen all of her.

Rowan shook himself slightly, then began toweling off. Thinking cold thoughts.

Once he was mostly dry, Rowan wrapped the towel tightly around his waist and walked through the bedroom, and into the absolutely massive closet. Only to find Aelin crouched on the floor, staring at the open drawer in front of her.

For a moment, Rowan just looked at her in confusion. But then he remembered.

All those years ago, before the king, before Endovier, Aelin had lived in this apartment with _Sam._ Right before he had been killed.

These must be his clothes.

“You don’t have to give those to me,” Rowan said, soft as he could.

Aelin started anyways, twisting in place to face him. For a moment, she only stared at him. And Rowan wasn’t sure if it was because of the scent of the dead boy swirling around them, escaping from the dresser full of his old clothing, or because Rowan had taken her that off guard, but Aelin’s look was dazed. She looked completely at a loss for words.

She swallowed, then finally spoke. “Clean clothes are scarce in the house right now, and these are of no use sitting here.” She pulled out a pale shirt and held it up. “I hope it fits.”

Rowan looked at it apprehensively, then took it. Sam had been an eighteen-year-old mortal when he died, and his clothes definitely reflected that. Rowan had his doubts about _‘fit.’_

Aelin quickly looked away from him, her face carefully blank as she rifled through the drawer for undershorts and pants. “I’ll get you proper clothes tomorrow. I’m pretty sure you’ll start a riot if the women of Rifthold see you walking down the streets in nothing but a towel.”

Rowan huffed a laugh that he hoped didn’t sound forced. He knew that Aelin would never stop mourning that boy, no matter how long she lived. But it was different now, being here. Where she had last seen him living and breathing.

It made it so much more real. That she had loved, and lost. Just as he had.

And Rowan couldn’t help but feel as though he were intruding.

But instead of pulling away, and leaving Aelin to wallow in that guilt and sadness alone, he stepped forwards, under the pretense of examining the contents of the closet. Thinking to help her the only way he knew how – with distraction.

But soon, he found himself entranced by them. So many luscious fabrics, exquisite embroideries, soft furs… “You wore all this?” He looked at her with wonder.

She nodded, quietly getting to her feet. Rowan flicked through a few of the garments, eyeing the tunics and dresses and shirts – some of which were the finest he had ever seen. “These are … very beautiful,” he admitted.

Aelin’s voice was soft. “I would have pegged you for a proud member of the anti-finery crowd.”

“Clothes are weapons, too,” he said, remembering all those times he had been stuck at court dinners, parties, festivals – with all that careful maneuvering. Fae playing games with each other for centuries, whole generations.

He continued searching through the closet, but then paused when he glanced a luxurious gown of pure black velvet. Its sleeves were made of tight, sheer silk, the neckline skimming just below the collarbones. And while the font was completely unadorned, the back nearly took his breath away.

A great, golden dragon roared down the spine of the garment, rendered perfectly in glittering metallic threads. Spraying a torrent of golden fire up to the neckline where it poured over the dress’ shoulders. It was so detailed that each scale was perfectly visible, as the serpentine dragon curled down the skirt of the dress to rest on the hemline, where the tail swung around the edge of the garment, as if lazily brushing the floor.

Rowan loosed a breath. “I like this one best.”

Aelin reach out a hand to brush to soft velvet sleeve. “I saw it in a shop when I was sixteen and bought it immediately. But when the dress was delivered a few weeks later, it seemed too…old. It overpowered the girl I was. So I never wore it, and it’s hung here for three years.”

As she spoke, Rowan ran a finger down the golden spine of the roaring, furious dragon, marveling at the rippling texture. “You’re not that girl anymore,” he said softly. “Someday, I want to see you wear this.”

Aelin looked up at him, meeting his gaze. The gold in her eyes just as molten and burning as the flames of that golden dragon.

“I missed you,” she breathed.

And the vulnerability, the pure openness he could see in her eyes made something in his gut clench tight. This was _exactly_ what he was afraid of. Why he made all those gods-damned rules in the first place.

“We weren’t apart that long.” His voice was cold as ice.

Aelin scowled. “So? Am I not allowed to miss you?”

Rowan’s jaw clenched, and guilt was already swirling in his stomach for the lie he knew he had to tell. “I once told you that the people you care about are weapons to be used against you. Missing me was a foolish distraction.”

Aelin’s face darkened. “You’re a real charmer, you know that?”

When Rowan didn’t say anything, Aelin swallowed and pushed the clothes into his arms. “You can get dressed in here,” she tossed the words at him like a blade, walking out of the closet without another word.

Rowan made sure she didn’t see the way her tone had cut into him.

He breathed deep, shoving away those emotions to deal with them later. It didn’t matter if she thought him cold, or heartless. Not if it kept her safe.

So Rowan breathed again, and began trying to worm his way into a dead man’s clothes. Trying not to let _that_ bother him too.

As practical as he was, the last thing Rowan wanted to do was put on the clothes of the mortal man Aelin’s had loved, and who loved her. It was like forcing himself into someone else’s love story, the unwelcome addition. The replacement that nobody wanted.

He stretched the undershorts over his thighs, and then carefully shrugged his way into the pants. They were too short, but they fit. Barely.

The shirt however was another story. Just looking at it Rowan knew that it would be too tight. So instead of risking tearing it, Rowan figured it would be better to go barechested.

He walked back into the bedroom to find that Aelin had gone into the bathroom. From the sound of it, she was washing her face. But this time, she had closed the door.

Rowan tried not to read too much into that gesture.

When she returned, her face darkening at the sight of him in the comically-small pants, he held the shirt out to her, saying, “The shirt is too small. I didn’t want to rip it.”

Aelin took it from him gingerly, then just looked at it for a moment, her expression unreadable. “I’ll go out first thing,” she said softly, then breathed in through her nose, quick and sharp. “Well, if you don’t mind meeting Aedion shirtless, I suppose we should go say hello.”

Rowan shook his head ever so slightly. “We need to talk.”

Aelin’s hackles instantly rose. “Good talk or bad talk?”

“The kind that will make me glad you don’t have access to your power so you don’t spew flames everywhere.”

“That was _one incident,_ and if you ask me, your absolutely _wonderful_ former lover deserved it.”

Rowan’s lips twitched, remembering. Remelle had certainly deserved it. And if Aelin hadn’t intervened, Rowan might have ended up doing something he would have regretted. Like murdering Remelle.

On second thought, maybe he wouldn’t have regretted it so much.

Aelin just sighed, “Now or later?”

“Later. It can wait a bit.”

She pursed her lips, then nodded, turning towards the door to the great room. Where Aedion was waiting for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im actually pretty proud of this one, so i hope you enjoyed!!!! And i'm sorry about the second cliffhanger, but this got to 6k and I checked the word count for the rest of the original section (the conversation with Aedion about Gavriel, the nightgown scene, etc.) and that is ANOTHER 5k. So i just had to split it here 😬 please forgive me!
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think! I read and appreciate every single comment, and i apologize if i cant always respond - life gets in the way sometimes, and i want to make sure i spend my free time writing!!! 
> 
> my tumblr is @cicada-bones


	6. The Forgotten Child

As they entered, Aedion rose from his seat at the kitchen table. It seemed he had spent the past hour just sitting around, waiting for them. And stewing. However, now that he had finally removed his cloak, Rowan could actually get a good look at the young demi-Fae.

He was tall, over six feet, and surprisingly well-muscled. He wasn’t ambidextrous, but from the way he carried himself, it seemed as though his swordsmanship might be just as proficient off the left side as the right. And he had this certain…arrogance, a weight in his step and a glint in his eyes, that told Rowan he’d been winning his fights for perhaps a bit _too_ long.

And those eyes, those Ashryver eyes – they were so like Aelin’s that Rowan almost felt they might even be twins. Along with that golden hair, the hard cheekbones, and those broad shoulders – Aelin and Aedion were two side of the same gold coin.

Though Rowan didn’t think he would’ve ever expected to discover that Aelin was the _tamer_ side of that coin.

The second Rowan appeared at Aelin’s side, he felt Aedion’s gaze lock with his. And the challenge that burned in it had not dimmed one bit.

Rowan’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. But he felt sighing. With everything they were facing, with the King and the Valg and Arobynn and the keys and _everything,_ the gods still had to go and foist another _Fenrys_ on him?

Aedion’s eyes flicked over him, appraising. “You never bothered to tell me how handsome your faerie prince is, Aelin.”

She scowled, and a muscle in Rowan’s jaw pulsed. But before he could speak, Aedion was jutting his chin at him and saying, “Tomorrow morning, you and I are going to train on the roof. I want to know everything you know.”

Aelin clicked her tongue. “All I’ve heard from your mouth these past few days is _Prince Rowan this_ and _Prince Rowan that,_ and yet _this_ is what you decide to say to him? No bowing and scraping?”

Aedion just sat back down, his smirk plastered to his face.

Yep, _just_ like Fenrys.

“If Prince Rowan wants formalities, I can grovel, but he doesn’t look like someone who particularly cares.”

Well, if this was the game the young wolf wished to play, Rowan could certainly oblige him. So he made sure his face was carefully blank before he replied. “Whatever my queen wants.”

Rowan could practically _feel_ Aelin’s irritation, the scent of pepper and burnt wood was that strong. But he still didn’t tear his eyes away from the young warrior-prince before him.

And Aedion just stared right back, stared as if he were used to everyone quickly looking away, stared as if this was the first time his power had been truly questioned in years. And it made Rowan realize that Aedion had actually expected that _Rowan_ would yield to _him._ Without a fight.

If they were in Doranelle – or actually even if they were just outside, and not in this tiny wooden box where neither of them could escape Aelin’s watchful gaze – Rowan would make the demi-Fae pay for his insolence.

He wouldn’t kill him – no, just teach the warrior-prince a lesson he would be unlikely to forget anytime soon.

It didn’t matter that Aedion was her family, didn’t matter that Aelin might care for her cousin more than she did for Rowan. Didn’t matter that she and Aedion had so much more history, or that they carried each other’s scents – Rowan was her _bloodsworn._ Her _carranam._

Rowan was Aelin’s Second until she informed him otherwise. And Aedion would have to learn to accept that. Just as Rowan would accept whatever place Aelin decided that Aedion would take in her court. Even if that place was in her bed.

Rowan heard the brush of fabric as Aelin leaned against the sink, folding her arms tight against her chest. “If you’re going to have a pissing contest, can you at least do it on the roof?”

Once again, Rowan was the one to break their stare, turning to look at Aelin with his brows raised. _Pissing contest?_

She just frowned at him. _Don’t kill my cousin, please._

“She says we’re no better than dogs,” Aedion said, filling the silence. “So I wouldn’t be surprised if she actually believes we’d piss on her furniture.”

But as he spoke, the warrior-prince’s scent wafted over Rowan, and this time, it was easy to smell Aelin on him. To pick the scent apart, note by note, and sense every emotion, every facet.

Rowan could taste the snow on him, the winds of Terrasen. Could taste the years of the sweat and blood of battle. Could even taste the Fae blood pumping through his veins – the wildness, and the magic. And then Rowan got that feeling again, that feeling of something familiar…something he just couldn’t quite place.

That familiar thing wasn’t Aelin after all. It was something else – some _one_ else…

“Aedion needs a bath, too, I know,” Aelin said, noticing his strange concentration.. “He insisted on smoking a pipe at the taproom. He said it gave him an air of dignity.”

Rowan tilted his head to the side, sniffing at the air, only barely registering Aelin’s words.

Aedion realized that Rowan was scenting him, and he shifted in his seat, his face twisting into a concerned, inquisitive expression. A look that Rowan knew very well. It was an expression he had seen thousands of times before, in hundreds of planning sessions, war councils, and in conversations over a few drinks.

A look he had seen on Gavriel’s face. And the missing piece of that familiar scent fell into place.

The fur, the warmth – the young wolf in front of him was the son of the Lion.

The words came slow. “Your mothers were cousins, Prince, but who sired you?”

Aedion didn’t shift an inch. “Does it matter?”

“Do you know?” Rowan pressed.

Aedion shrugged. “She never told me – or anyone.”

Aelin was catching on far more quickly than her cousin. “I’m guessing you have some idea?” she hedged.

Rowan turned to look at her. “He doesn’t look familiar to you?”

“He looks like me.”

“Yes, but – ” Rowan sighed. “You met his father. A few weeks ago. Gavriel.”

Rowan thought he might be able to hear a pin drop – in the next town over.

Shock billowed through the room like clear smoke, and all three of them were completely, perfectly still. Rowan could practically _hear_ the gears turning in Aelin’s mind as she worked through it, piecing it all together – the timelines, the heightened strength, the strange way Gavriel had acted while at Mistward –

“He asked me,” Aelin murmured. “He asked me how old I was, and seemed relieved when I said nineteen.”

Rowan only nodded. He remembered that time for himself, that time two decades earlier.

Rowan and Lorcan had been off, representing their Queen somewhere in the far East. In a court that had treated them well, but bored them to tears. Gavriel, however, had been in Varese. Where he had obviously met Aedion’s mother, and gotten her with child.

Then abandoned her, and never spoke of her again.

Aedion’s voice was hoarse as he finally spoke. “The Lion is my father?”

Rowan just nodded at the young general, at the son of his oldest friend. This would change _everything._

“Does he know?”

“I bet seeing Aelin was the first time he wondered if he’d sired a child with your mother. He probably still doesn’t have any idea, unless that prompted him to start looking…”

As he spoke, for the first time, Rowan found himself considering his own history.

For over two hundred years, he’d traveled the world. Bedding without thought, without consequence. It was difficult for the Fae to conceive, that was true. But for all he knew, he had a child waiting for him out there somewhere.

Rowan had never felt more reckless and irresponsible than he did in that moment, looking at the child that Gavriel had left behind.

That kind, compassionate male, the leader who had tattooed the names of his fallen men on his own skin, had thoughtlessly abandoned his own son. If Gavriel had been capable of that, than what had _Rowan_ been capable of? Cold, heartless male that he had been?

Aedion was just looking back at him. But this time, the stare was made of nothing – no fire, no challenge. It was empty. And Aelin seemed to be getting worried. She moved towards the table, her hand reaching out to brush her cousin’s. The touch soft, gentle.

Their eyes met, and Rowan couldn’t help the pang of jealousy that cut through him. “This changes nothing,” Aelin said, her expression open, and kind. “About who you are, what you mean to me. _Nothing.”_

There was a moment of silence while Aelin brushed her thumb over the back of Aedion’s hand, trying to give him what small comfort he could. It made Rowan’s heart ache.

Suddenly, she pivoted back to face him. “What does this mean where Maeve is concerned? Gavriel is bound through the blood oath, so would she have a claim on his offspring?”

“Like hell she does,” Aedion spat.

Rowan paused for a moment, considering. His voice was gentle when he spoke. “I don’t know. Even if she thought so, it would be an act of war to steal Aedion from you.”

“This information doesn’t leave this room,” Aelin said, calm and calculating. “It’s ultimately your choice, Aedion, whether to approach Gavriel. But we have enough enemies gathering around us as it is. I don’t need to start a war with Maeve.”

But she would. She would start a war for him, if he asked her to. Rowan could see it in her eyes. And he couldn’t help but wonder if she would do the same for him.

“It stays with us,” Aedion managed to choke out, his voice rough. Once again, the boy’s eyes met his - that challenge smoldering there once again.

But this most recent stand-off didn’t last particularly long.

Aelin clicked her tongue at them. “Stop doing that alpha-male nonsense. Once was enough.”

Rowan didn’t so much as blink. “I’m not doing anything,” he said, perhaps a little _too_ innocently.

“Insufferable,” Aelin muttered, giving Rowan a playful shove. “Are you _actually_ going to get into a pissing contest with every person we meet? Because if that’s the case, then it’ll take us an hour just to make it down one block of this city, and I doubt the residents will be particularly happy.”

Rowan finally turned away from Aedion, letting their stare break with a near-audible _snap._ He did Aedion the courtesy of pretending not to hear his quiet, relieved sigh.

Particularly as Aelin was truly getting annoyed with him. _I thought I asked you to leave my cousin_ alone.

_You just told me not to kill him, not that I had to leave him alone._

Aelin’s frown deepened as she crossed her arms, waiting.

Rowan pursed his lips. “It’ll take time to adjust to a new dynamic,” he admitted, somewhat reluctantly.

Aelin seemed almost shocked that he’d said even that much. Rowan grumbled at her.

Aedion, however, was riding a high. Rowan could hear the blood thrumming in his veins, and his muscles were stretched tight as a drum in that chair he was pretending to lounge in. “Aelin never said anything about sending for you.”

Rowan’s eyes slid back to the wolf’s, icy and intent. “Does she answer to you, General?”

Aelin just rolled her eyes, obviously deciding to treat the tension building between the two males as if it didn’t exist. “You know he didn’t mean it that way, so don’t pick a fight, you prick.”

Aedion stiffened, catching the insinuation beneath Aelin’s statement. And Rowan had to hide a victorious smile.

If she was asking Rowan to stand down, then it was because she was worried that Rowan would hurt Aedion. Meant that she thought _Aedion_ was the one who needed protecting, that _Aedion_ was the lesser warrior.

But Aelin probably didn’t know that – and she had never been a bloodsworn warrior either. So no matter how loyal, no matter how caring or compassionate, she had no idea the lengths to which Rowan would go to keep her safe. No idea how solidly, how permanently, he stood behind her. Even on the smallest of things.

“I’m blood-sworn to you,” Rowan tried to explain, “Which means several things, one of which being that I don’t particularly care for the questioning of others, even your cousin.”

Before the words were even all the way out, Rowan knew that he had made a mistake.

Aelin had gone pale as a ghost, freezing in place. And Rowan found himself searching for his magic, reaching out to test shields that were no longer there, calling the winds towards him to sense for any unwelcome intruders. But he had no powers to call.

Instead, he scented the air, his mind straining to listen for even the smallest of noises. But there was nothing. Only the sound of Aedion’s ragged breathing.

The wolf was a man whose whole world had come falling about his ears. And he was looking at Aelin with more than just shock, more than just hurt. His eyes were filled with the pain of _betrayal._

Of a betrayal so close, so unexpected, that it shattered the very air to pieces.

Rowan found himself preparing to leap in front of Aelin, preparing to rip into the young warrior-prince with everything he had if he made so much as one move towards his queen.

“What did he just say?” The boy’s words were excruciatingly soft.

Aelin squared her shoulders, her words clear and steady. “Rowan took the blood oath to me before I left Wendlyn.”

“You let him do _what?”_

Aelin raised up her hands, whether to soothe or protect, Rowan wasn’t sure. Nor did he have any idea why the hell Aelin had kept this a secret from her cousin. Though judging by this reaction, she simply might have been scared.

But perhaps… _was Aelin ashamed of him?_

But her voice didn’t shake as she stood her ground. “As far as I knew, Aedion, you were loyally serving the king. As far as I knew, I was never going to see you again.”

 _“You let him take the blood oath to you?”_ Aedion was bellowing now, and it took all of Rowan’s self-control to keep from stepping between the two cousins, to keep from lunging at Aedion and knocking him to the floor.

Then, all of a sudden, Aedion was leaping towards the fireplace, his arms reaching towards the trinkets atop the mantelpiece.

But before his fingers got within an inch, Aelin had flung out a vicious finger and was advancing on him, Rowan following close behind. “You break one thing, you shatter just _one_ of my possessions, and I will shove the shards down your rutting throat.”

Aedion spat at her feet, but didn’t move another inch towards the fireplace. “How _dare_ you? How _dare_ you let him take it?”

“I dare because it is my blood to give away; I dare because you did not exist for me then. Even if neither of you had taken it yet, I would still give it to him because he is my _carranam,_ and he has earned my unquestioning loyalty!”

Rowan kept very still.

“And what about _our_ unquestioning loyalty?” Aedion roared, “What have you done to earn that? What have you done to save our people since you’ve returned? Were you ever going to tell me about the blood oath, or was that just another of your many lies?”

Aelin snarled, vicious and intense. And from the look on Aedion’s face, Rowan could tell that he had forgotten she had Fae blood in her too. _The idiot._

“Go have your temper tantrum somewhere else.” Aelin said. “Don’t come back until you can act like a human being. Or half of one, at least.”

Aedion just swore at her, foul and filthy, and before Rowan could stop himself he was lunging towards Aedion, knocking aside the furniture hard enough to flip it over –

But then Aelin threw out her hand. Stopping him in his tracks.

Aedion looked at him and laughed, the sound brittle and cold. Then smiled at Rowan in that infuriating, overconfident way. A smile that had started a thousand brawls. A smile that Rowan had seen countless times on Lorcan’s, Fenrys’, and even his own, face.

So Rowan knew exactly what lay behind it. And he also knew exactly how he would strike Aedion down if the wolf pup decided to take it beyond just a smile.

Rowan carefully moved back to the chair, righted it, and sat down, casually as anything. But before Aedion could react, Aelin pointed at the door. “Get the hell out. I don’t want to see you again for a good while.”

Aedion didn’t hesitate before striding over to the front door and flinging it open so hard he nearly ripped it off its hinges. And then it shut behind him with a soft, very final, click.

Silence fell in the apartment as Aedion’s footsteps faded away down the stairs, until Aelin stood and walked into her bedroom, beginning to pace. She didn’t shut the door behind her, so Rowan figured it was alright for him to follow behind her.

After a moment’s consideration, he perched on the edge of the mattress, which was _exactly_ as plush as he’d expected it to be. For long minutes, Aelin didn’t even acknowledge him.

She was turned inwards, her thoughts battling with each other, her scent a raging cloud of anxiety and anger and regret and fear. And Rowan wanted to pummel Aedion into the dirt for making her load any heavier.

His queen carried more burdens than anyone should have to, burdens heavy enough to curve the spine of even the most hardened warrior. Seeing her struggle like this – it was enough that Rowan had to physically force himself to keep from launching himself into the night after that arrogant warrior-prince.

He understood why Aedion was enraged, he really, really did. If Aelin had rejected him in such a way – he would have felt exactly the same. He probably would have felt _worse._ But never, not in a thousand lifetimes, would he have ever made that reaction _her_ problem.

Rowan wondered if Aedion was always so hot-headed, so volatile, or if this reaction was because the circumstances were so extreme. He wondered if Aedion would make a good King.

Rowan decided to give the male the benefit of the doubt. He owed Aelin that much at the very least – after spending so many weeks thinking the worse of her, without any justification.

Even if that anger, that hatred, had mostly been a reaction to this inexplicable, undeniable _feeling,_ this _thing_ between them. Even then, in Varese, it had been there. And it had scared the shit out of him.

But still, Aelin had always been older than her years. Older and wiser. And by contrast, Aedion just seemed so _young._ Rowan was sure the male was experienced in war, and even in playing the role he had been forced into in Rifthold’s royal court.

But at negotiating? Maneuvering? Compromise? Rallying enemy forces to their cause? Rowan was less sure.

But he had to admit, the wolf was indisputably powerful. The rage and aggression and power that had come off of him – Rowan didn’t think he’d seen its like from any other another demi-Fae than Lorcan.

The boy had potential. Potential that Rowan would have to figure out how to harness, to use to their goals. To form the beginnings of Aelin’s royal court. For no matter any reservations Rowan might have about Aedion, it was clear that it would be the three of them who would form its backbone.

Still, Aelin hadn’t ceased her pacing. At this rate, she was in danger of wearing a track into the rug before the fireplace.

“If that’s any indication of what to expect from our court,” Rowan said at last, “then we’ll never have a dull moment.”

Aelin didn’t bother looking over at him, instead flinging out her hand in a dismissive gesture, saying, “Don’t tease me right now.”

Rowan just waited, knowing she was gathering the words, hating that pain and sorrow and guilt on every line of her body. He’d sell his soul to the dark god to never have her look like that again.

Aelin scrubbed at her face, huffed a short sigh. “Every time I turn around,” she said, approaching the bed and leaning against the carved post, “I feel like I’m one wrong move or word away from leading them to ruin. People’s lives – _your_ life – depend on me. There’s no room for error.”

Rowan could offer her nothing but the truth. “You will make mistakes. You will make decisions, and sometimes you will regret those choices. Sometimes there won’t be a right choice, just the best of several bad options. I don’t need to tell you that you can do this – you know you can. I wouldn’t have sworn the oath to you if I didn’t think you could.”

She sat down on the bed next to him, their thighs close enough to touch. This close, Rowan could see every single fleck of gold in her eyes. This close, it almost felt as though her scent enveloped him like a cloud of mist, like a second skin.

And at the moment, that scent was rife with tension and worry and guilt – like layers of sour spice and rotten fruit. But as the two of them sat together, all of that seemed to fade away, a veil being lifted, to reveal true scent beneath. It caressed him, soft as a bedroom whisper.

Aelin shook her head. “It was so much easier being alone.”

“I know,” he said, clamping down on the instinct to sling his arm around her shoulders and tuck her in close. Instead, he tried to focus on the sounds of the city around them, the light rattling of the windowpane in the wind, the patter of vermin in the streets below, the chirping of birds overhead.

One of the first things he’d wanted to do was survey the apartment, to make sure each and every piece of it was completely secure, to familiarize himself with the space. But then he had let himself be distracted, by Aelin, by Aedion – and so the apartment remained unsafe, and unfamiliar.

Rowan sighed at himself. It made him feel…helpless, to have to do everything the old-fashioned way. To not be able to handle things that had been so simple, so basic, with his magic. He felt off-balance. And at a time when being off-balance could be fatal to her.

The minutes ticked passed in quiet companionship.

“I said some appalling things to him,” Aelin said, eventually.

“Don’t worry about it,” Rowan responded, unable to help the growl. “He said some equally appalling things to you. Your tempers are evenly matched.”

She let out a breathy chuckle, her body finally relaxing into the mattress. “Tell me about the fortress – what it was like when you went back to help rebuild.”

So Rowan smiled as he told her about mining stone and remaking the wall, about working with a Malakai who no longer seemed _remotely_ intimidated by him, about repairing the damage done to the base of the castle where the tunnel had lay hidden.

And when he spoke of training Luca, and of Emrys’ request, Aelin was punching him on the arm and scolding him for disappointing her friends like that. “Why didn’t you stay? Luca obviously needed your help!”

Rowan just shook his head, his face darkening. And here it was, the news he’d been avoiding all night. Not wanting to add yet another weight to the pile on her shoulders.

“Just say it,” she said, with a direct, unyielding sort of look. And Rowan wondered if she realized that for all she complained about his alpha nonsense, she was pureblooded alpha herself.

Rowan took a long breath. “Lorcan’s here.”

She straightened. “That’s why you came.”

Rowan nodded. “I caught his scent sneaking around near Mistward and tracked it to the coast, then onto a ship. I picked up his trail when I docked this evening.” Her face was pale, so he added, “I made sure to cover my tracks before hunting you down.”

Aelin still didn’t say anything, just processing. Adjusting. Recalculating.

His former commander would certainly require some recalculation. He could prove completely disastrous. Rowan really needed to make sure the apartment was secure, as soon as possible.

Ahen she remained silent, Rowan continued. “He doesn’t know you well enough to immediately pick up your scent. I’d bet good money that he got on that boat just to drag me here so I’d lead him to you.”

Aelin swore with creative colorfulness. “Maeve probably thinks we’ll also lead him right to the third Wyrdkey. Do you think she gave him the order to put us down – either to get the key, or afterward?”

“Maybe.” The thought was enough to shoot icy rage through him. “I won’t let that happen.”

Her mouth quirked to the side. “You think I could take him?”

“If you had your magic, possibly.”

Irritation rippled in her eyes – enough so that he knew something else nagged at her. “But without magic, in your human form…You’d be dead before you could draw your sword.”

“He’s that good.”

Rowan gave her a slow nod.

She looked him over with an assassin’s eye. “Could you take him?”

“It’d be so destructive, I wouldn’t risk it. You remember what I told you about Sollemere.” Aelin’s face tightened, remembering, even as the thought of having to destroy Lorcan clanged through him. If it ever came to that, Rowan would know things were truly desperate.

Rowan sighed, shoving those worries aside. They were pointless. “Without our magic, it’s hard to call who’d win. It would depend on who wanted it more.” Once, Rowan might have let him win, let Lorcan end him just to put a stop to his own miserable life, but now… “Lorcan makes a move against you, and he dies.”

Aelin didn’t blink at the violence that laced every word. Another part of him – a part that had been knotted from the moment she left – uncoiled like some wild animal stretching out before a fire.

Aelin cocked her head. “Any idea where he’d hide?”

“None. I’ll start hunting him tomorrow.”

“No,” she said. “Lorcan will easily find us without you hunting him. But if he expects me to lead him to the third key so he can bring it back to Maeve, then maybe …” He could almost see the wheels turning in her head. She let out a hum. “I’ll think about that tomorrow. Do you think Maeve wants the key merely to keep me from using it, or to use it herself?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“Both, then.” Aelin sighed. “The question is, will she try to use us to hunt down the other two keys, or does she have another one of your cadre out searching for them now?”

“Let’s hope she hasn’t sent anyone else.”

“If Gavriel knew that Aedion is his son…” She glanced toward the bedroom door, guilt and pain flickering on her lovely features. “Would he follow Maeve, even if it meant hurting or killing Aedion in the process? Is her control over him that strong?”

“Gavriel …” He’d seen the warrior with lovers over the centuries, and seen him leave them at Maeve’s order. But he’d also been the only male of his cadre who had stopped that night to help Aelin against the Valg.

“Don’t answer now,” Aelin cut in with a yawn. “We should go to bed.”

Rowan immediately tensed, and as casually as he could, he asked, “Where should I sleep?”

She patted the bed behind them. “Just like old times.”

Rowan clenched his jaw. He’d been bracing himself for this all night – for weeks now. “It’s not like the fortress, where no one thinks twice about it.”

“And what if I want you to stay in here with me?” Aelin’s eyes bore into a him, a completely different kind of challenge than the one set by Aedion. But one equally fraught. And one that burned far hotter.

Carefully, Rowan said, “Then I’ll stay. On the couch. But you need to be clear to the others about what my staying in here means.” There were so many lines that needed to be held.

Aelin was off-limits – completely off-limits, for about a dozen different reasons. The stupidest possible thing he could do would be to give in now, to let that desperate, craving part of himself win out so easily. She wasn’t his to claim.

Aelin only shrugged, irreverent as always. “Then I’ll issue a royal decree about my honorable intentions toward you over breakfast.”

Rowan snorted. And though he didn’t want to, he said, “And – the captain.”

“What about him?” she said, a little too sharply.

“Just consider how he might interpret things.”

“Why?”

She’d done an excellent job of not really mentioning him. But there was enough anger, enough pain in that one word, that Rowan couldn’t back down. “Tell me what happened.”

Aelin didn’t meet his eyes. “He said what occurred here – to my friends, to him and Dorian, while I was away in Wendlyn – that it was my fault. And that I was a monster.”

For a moment, blinding, blistering wrath shot through him. And all he wanted to do was to reach out to her, to brush her hand. To cradle her face.

Rowan stayed frozen in place.

She still wasn’t looking at him as she said, “Do you think – ”

“Never,” he said. “Never, Aelin.”

At last she looked up at him, her eyes as old and tired as her throne. Looking nothing like a girl of nineteen.

“If you’re a monster, I’m a monster,” Rowan said, smiling at her gently, but making sure that his fangs glinted in the candlelight.

She let out a rough laugh, close enough that her breath warmed his face. “Just sleep in the bed,” she said. “I don’t feel like digging up bedding for the couch.”

Maybe it was the laugh, or the silver lining her eyes, but he said, “Fine.”

He was such stupid fool when it came to her. He made himself add, “But it sends a message, Aelin.”

She lifted her brows in a way that usually meant fire was going to start flickering – but none came. Both of them were trapped in their bodies, stranded without magic. He’d adapt; he’d endure.

“Oh?” she purred, and he braced himself for the tempest. “And what message _does_ it send? That I’m a whore? As if what I do in the privacy of my own room, with _my_ body, is anyone’s concern.”

“You think I don’t agree?” His temper slipped its leash. No one else had ever been able to get under his skin so fast, so deep. “But _things are different now,_ Aelin. You’re a queen of the realm. We have to consider how it looks, what impact it might have on our relationships with people who find it to be improper. Explaining that it’s for your safety – ”

“Oh, please. My safety? You think Lorcan or the king or whoever the hell else has it in for me is going to slither through the window in the middle of the night? I _can_ protect myself, you know.”

“Gods above, I know you can.” He’d never been in doubt of that.

Her nostrils flared. “This is one of the stupidest fights we’ve ever had. All thanks to _your_ idiocy, I might add.” She stalked toward her closet, her hips swishing as if to accentuate every word as she snapped, “Just get in bed.”

He tried his best to keep his eyes from following them, and failed completely. Then loosed a tight breath as she and those hips vanished into the closet.

How he would survive the weeks to come holed up in this apartment, he had no idea. What with the antagonistic warrior-prince on one hand, and the irresistible queen on the other – the Fae in this house were far too used to getting their own way.

And the month apart had only seemed to increase his attraction to Aelin. The idea of sleeping at her side, his skin inches from hers – all the blood in his body seemed to rush through, burning as it went.

This was going to be agony.

Rowan stood from the bed, heading to the bathroom to see if washing his face and readying for bed might make him see sense. The cold water helped, but only barely.

When he returned to the bedroom, Aelin was still in the closet, changing. So Rowan gingerly moved over the plush mattress and slid between the silken sheets. The cloth was filled with her scent – and Rowan couldn’t lie to himself and say that he didn’t love it, being wrapped up in her scent.

Another minute passed, and then Aelin emerged, a smirk on her face, and –

Rowan jolted upright, the bed groaning. “What in hell is _that?”_

Aelin didn’t pause or look over, but he could feel her satisfaction at his outburst. Instead of deigning to answer the question, she just walked into the bathroom, casual as anything.

Rowan barely heard the sound of the tap turning on, the splash of water as she washed her face. He could barely hear anything over the pounding of his heart.

He tried his best to think of something, _anything_ else. But he couldn’t. That image was burned into his mind like a brand.

Aelin had changed into a delicate pink lace nightgown. There were no sleeves, only thin straps that rested atop her shoulders, while the torturous hemline grazed just below her collarbones, the lace trim fluttering slightly as she walked. And through the thin material, Rowan thought he could just see the shapes of her nipples poking through, right at the peaks of her breasts.

But all of that was nothing, _nothing,_ to the rest of the dress. The nightgown fell over the planes of her stomach, pulling in at her waist and highlighting all of her beautiful curves. And coming to an end right beneath her hips, only barely covering her ass and leaving the entire expanse of her long, muscled legs, completely bare.

Rowan was speechless.

When she returned, her face freshly washed, Rowan finally managed to find his voice. He crossed his arms over his chest. “You forgot the bottom part.”

Aelin ignored him, instead walking about the bedroom and blowing out the candles, one by one by one. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“There is no bottom part,” she said, flinging back the covers on her side. “It’s starting to get so hot, and I hate sweating when I sleep. Plus, you’re practically a furnace. So it’s either this or I sleep naked. You can sleep in the bathtub if you have a problem with it.”

Rowan growled, more frustrated than she would ever know. “You’ve made your point.”

“Hmm.” She slid into bed beside him, making sure to keep a careful distance between them. Something that Rowan vaguely remembered wanting, but for the life of him he couldn’t come up with a single reason why.

His very _skin_ ached with need. The need to reach out, to close the space between their two bodies, to feel her skin beneath his hands, to rip that nightgown to _shreds –_

Rowan breathed, concentrating on slowly freezing his body in place, locking his muscles tight. He wasn’t a rutting child. And he had some gods-damned self-control.

Aelin settled into bed beside him, and for a long moment, the only sounds in the bedroom were the rustling of fabric on skin. She settled with her back to him, the sharp points of her shoulders poking through the skin, those long, ragged scars prominently on display.

The tattoos he had painstakingly inked only a month before had already started to fade in places, making a few of the characters difficult to read. Likely because it had been into scar tissue. He had to actively stop himself from tracing their shapes, from skimming his fingers over the soft expanse of her back…

Rowan’s voice was carefully blank as he said, “I need to fill in the ink a bit more in a few places.”

Aelin turned to face him, her pupils widening in the dark, “What?” she asked, confusedly. As she turned, her breasts spilled out onto the sheets, pressing together under the weight of her arm.

Rowan looked up at the ceiling.

“Your tattoo,” he said. “There are a few spots I need to fill in at some point.”

“Fine,” she said, and Rowan couldn’t be sure, but he almost thought he caught a hint of disappointment in her tone.

Another moment passed in silence, and almost against his will, Rowan found himself saying, “I’ve never seen – clothing like that.”

She rolled back over to face him, her eyes lit up with a playful delight. “You mean to tell me the females in Doranelle don’t have scandalous nightclothes? Or anywhere else in the world?”

Before he could think twice, Rowan was already speaking. “My encounters with other females usually didn’t involve parading around in nightclothes.”

“And what clothes did they involve?”

“Usually, none at all.” He knew he was being reckless, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Aelin clicked her tongue at him. “Having had the utter delight of meeting Remelle this spring, I have a hard time believing she didn’t subject you to clothing parades.”

Rowan turned his face back towards the ceiling, this time because of the image of that repulsive, conniving female. His thoughts couldn’t have been farther from the memory of the time he’d spent with her. “We’re not talking about this.”

Aelin chuckled, the movement making the lace on her collarbones shake slightly. If _every_ night was going to be like this…

“Are all your nightclothes like that?” Rowan asked tentatively.

“So curious about my negligees, Prince. Whatever would the others say? Maybe you should issue a decree to clarify.”

Rowan growled, and Aelin answered through a wide grin. “Yes, I have more, don’t worry. If Lorcan is going to murder me in my sleep, I might as well look good.”

“Vain until the bitter end.”

But Aelin would not relent. “Is there a specific color you’d like me to wear? If I’m going to scandalize you, I should at least do it in something you like.”

“You’re a menace.”

And Aelin laughed, and the sound of that laugh was worth the pain of a thousand nightgowns. Was worth the entire month apart.

And before he knew what he was doing, Rowan said, “Gold. Not yellow – real, metallic gold.”

“You’re out of luck,” she murmured into her pillow. “I would never own anything so ostentatious.”

And through all of his frustration, Rowan was smiling at her.

Soon, Aelin had fallen into a deep sleep, her bare shoulders falling and rising with each breath, the tiniest whine escaping through her nose. 

And yet thirty minutes later, Rowan was still awake, forcibly staring up at the ceiling as he tried to calm the roaring in his blood by sheer force of will. A roaring that was steadily shredding through his self-control.

_Shit._

He was in such deep, unending shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See! sometimes i actually do mean what i saw when i tell you im going to try to get the update out asap!!! I tried to shove as much jealousy and pining and tension into this one as could fit - so i really hope you enjoyed even a little bit as much as I did! 
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think!  
> my tumblr is @cicada-bones


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